


The Final Howl of the Grey Wolf

by mrsrockatansky



Series: The Flower of Ferelden [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Exhibitionism, F/M, Mentor/Protégé, Multi, Multiple Pairings, Multiple Partners, Ostagar, Public Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Threesome - F/M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-06-12 12:36:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 66
Words: 227,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15339999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsrockatansky/pseuds/mrsrockatansky
Summary: The Warden-Commander of Ferelden had resigned himself to the fact that his body was so overcome by the taint that he could no longer experience the pleasures of the flesh. However, his newest recruit - a spirit healer named Flora, three decades his junior - has the unique ability to neutralise the Blight with the touch of her lips.An alternate-universe smutty one-shot that somehow turned into a multi-chapter erotic novella! This is an AU based on my main series, The Lion and the Light; featuring an original Cousland mage character.





	1. The Ageing Wolf

Chapter 1: The Ageing Wolf  


The Warden-Commander of Ferelden had never lacked for bed-partners; even though the urge to copulate emerged less and less frequently as the taint wormed its way into the inner crevasses of his body. As a youth, Duncan had traded on his handsome Rivaini looks and un-Fereldan charisma to charm willing partners to bed. Even now, in his fifth decade, the tawny, hawklike features had not lost their exotic allure; and the chest beneath the griffon-emblazoned breastplate was still reasonably defined, if covered with the remnants of battle.

Indeed, there had been several late-night visitors to his tent after the Order first arrived at Ostagar. There had been a dark-haired mage who had called him Warden-Commander at the point of climax, and a middle-aged Chantry sister whose tongue proved equally skilled administering pleasure as it did verses of the Chant. There had also been a quick and not wholly satisfying fumble with one of the archers in King Cailan’s retinue.

Still, as the weeks at Ostagar drew on and the glum drizzle of autumn set in, Duncan found his libido slowly settling into hibernation. He wasn’t sure if it was due to the thrall of the taint over his body, or the miserable weather – or an inharmonious combination of both. Eventually, he had stopped even bothering to tug at himself beneath the blankets at night, let alone go to the effort of inviting anyone to his tent.

It came as quite a surprise to him, then, when his dormant cock gave a stir of interest during one damp morning briefing in the middle of Kingsway. The Wardens had gathered in the lower courtyard to receive instructions from their commander; the recruits standing to one side and the seniors to the other.

Duncan issued orders to the senior Wardens first, giving out details of patrols and duties before dismissing them with a curt nod. Turning to the recruits, he swept a stern and authoritative gaze across their faces. Alistair –  _his most promising recruit, although the boy lacked the confidence to realise it_  – stood a little straighter, shoulders back and chin raised in an effort to please.

As Duncan’s eyes continued their thoughtful sweep along the row of juniors, they came to rest on his newest recruit.

_My gifted new mage. The one who doesn’t realise how useful she is; with that shield, and her ability to inhale the taint._

_Flora Cove – that’s not her real name, I’d bet a wagon of coin on it. Her face reminds me of someone I’ve seen recently._

_Blasted taint eats away at the memory like woodworm. It’ll come to me._

The girl now looked anxious at such prolonged attention – in the Circle, being stared at by a figure in armour was never a good sign. Her grey eyes widened, the dark lashes in stark contrast to the paleness of the irises; and she reached up to fiddle worriedly with a loose strand of dark red hair.

 _Everything about this pretty creature tilts upwards,_ Duncan thought absentmindedly to himself as he appraised her features, trying to recall why they seemed so familiar.  _The nose, those curious, limpid eyes._

_Those pert little breasts._

It was then that he felt his cock stir with sudden interest, a sinuous twist of lust deep in his groin. The morning drizzle had dampened the fabric of the thin tunic so that it clung to the bare skin below.

 _Is that a crease in the fabric, or the outline of a nipple?_  

Hastily, the Warden-Commander moved his attention down the line; irritated with himself. 

 _You’re not in the habit of bedding your recruits, you old fool. Especially not ones three decades younger than you._  

Once he had finished issuing instructions to the recruits, Duncan dismissed them and turned his mind to the day ahead.

Before he could gather his thoughts, a hesitant voice filtered in through his ear.

“Duncan, the king has requested that Flora accompany him on his expedition into the Wilds this morning. I wasn’t sure if you knew about it?” 

It was Alistair, shifting nervously from foot to foot with the patient Flora standing at his side.

“Aye, Alistair. I am aware of this,” Duncan replied, wryly. “The king does – on occasion – share his plans with me. Why?”

Alistair coughed; clearly he had been ‘volunteered’ to ask this question by the other Wardens.

“King Cailan  _does_ know about Flora’s…  _limitations_ as a mage, doesn’t he? Just so it doesn’t come as a surprise in the field when he commands her to- to  _launch a fireball,_ or something.”

Alistair trailed off lamely, shooting an apologetic glance sideways at the recruit whom he had been instructed to  _keep an eye on_. Flora, who had received four years of jibes at the Circle for her astonishing lack of ability, was surprised at how much comments of this nature could still sting.

Duncan saw his new mage flinch, her solemn eyes dropping to her boots and her shoulders hunching. Resisting the urge to step forward and lift her small, pointed chin with a finger; he instead cleared his throat to catch her attention.

“Flora has a gift, Alistair,” he said softly, with a quiet sharpness to his tone. “A very rare and special talent that may prove to be invaluable against the Blight. It has been many years since I met a spirit healer of such natural ability. 

Flora raised her pale gaze to him, wide-eyed and wondering. Duncan responded with his own steady, absolutely focused dark stare. Something strange and intangible hung in the air between them; like the coy whisper of a voice through the Veil.

She looked away first, dropping her gaze quickly. Duncan was unsure if it was his imagination – his eyesight was not as sharp as it once was – but he could have sworn that he saw a faint pinkness blooming on her cheeks.

 _Those aren’t just creases in the fabric,_ a lazy, languid voice breathed in his ear.  _Those are her nipples, standing out against the rain- dampened wool. She’s not wearing anything underneath her tunic._

For the first time in months, the insidious whisper of the taint was drowned out by thoughts that were entirely inappropriate for a commander to be entertaining about his new recruit.

_Especially one of your years. You’re acting like a lust-struck youth._

_She’s just grateful for the first praise she’s received in years, most likely. With how quick the Circle were to let her go, they clearly didn’t appreciate her talents._

Still, it was a welcome change. Wanting to preserve this interlude of blissful distraction for as long as possible; Duncan made a quick detour to his tent and pulled his cock from his greaves. It was already half-hard; once he had mentally peeled the damp tunic from Flora’s body, it was pulsing and turgid. The Warden-Commander pleasured himself with long, practised strokes; imagining the young mage’s creamy, pert breasts bared before him. He did not know the colour of her nipples, but envisioned them in the soft, delicate pink that had risen to her cheeks when she blushed.

He climaxed to the thought of teasing one of those small nipples to stiffness with his tongue. As the seed spilled hot and sticky over his fist, Duncan let out a choked, hoarse rasp of relief, feeling his heart lurch forwards in joyous, life-fuelled rhythm.

_Thank the Maker. The taint hasn’t yet taken this from me._

As he cleaned up the aftermath, aware of his own impending obligations, the Warden-Commander made a stern resolution to himself.

_But I won’t seek selfish pleasure with this one. She’s a recruit, fresh from a Circle, naïve and far too young._

_If the mere thought of her pretty little breasts is enough to prove I’m still more human than monster; I’m content with that._

_And don’t dwell on the blush that rose when she looked at you. It was gratitude, nothing more._

 

 

For the next handful of weeks, Duncan was preoccupied with preparations for the Darkspawn’s next assault. Ostagar had been fortified and filled with soldiers until it bristled with weaponry; trebuchets lined up on the parapets and troops drilling incessantly in the courtyards below. The Grey Wardens demonstrated good practice for the rest of the forces – after all, it would be them leading the initial charge against the horde.

The Warden-Commander had been less successful in persuading King Cailan in summoning the rest of the armies at the Order’s disposal. The king had insisted that there was no time; yet Duncan had a sneaking suspicion that Cailan desired the lion’s share of the glory for himself. In the Theirin’s mind, the inevitable victory would somehow be  _diminished_  if it were shared with elves and dwarves.

Duncan had hardly spared a moment to think about his recruits; even the pretty young mage with the oxblood hair barely graced his thoughts. She moved at the periphery of his attentions, like the brightest point of some distant constellation. He was aware that Flora was not accepted by the rest of the Order – in addition to their natural suspicion of her position as a mage, they made sly jibes about her limited abilities. Alistair did his best to dissuade them – the lad was slowly losing his guard around her – but to little avail.

Flora bore their mockery with a northerner’s stoicism. It was clear that she was used to such derision from the Circle; instead of complaining or lashing out with a verbal retort, she simply ignored it.

On one rainy evening near the end of Kingsway, Duncan found himself with some time to spare. He sent a scout to deliver a written message to his newest recruit, summoning her to his tent. As he waited underneath the striped silver and blue canopy, the Warden-Commander suddenly realised the inappropriateness of inviting a young female recruit into his tent. It was far from spacious accommodation; and the raised camp bed took up a disproportionate amount of space.

_I can’t have her in one eye and the bedroll in the other. My mind will only pair the two together._

Cursing inwardly, the Warden-Commander ducked outside; straight into a chilly, autumn drizzle. He made his way over to a stone archway with a view of the drilling courtyard below; the structure provided some shelter from the rain.

Some time later, his new spirit healer joined him, her hair hanging in dishevelled crimson ropes down her back. Duncan was relieved to see that Flora was wearing an Order tabard over a plain linen shirt – he would not have been able to focus if she had worn the wool tunic alone.

“I’m sorry that I’m late,” she said, in the soft, throaty accent that betrayed both her northern origin, and her humble background. “I couldn’t read your message. I can’t read at all, actually.” 

Duncan arrested the surprise before it could reach his face, clearing his throat and asking a more innocuous question.

“Wasn’t Alistair nearby to assist you, sister-warden?” 

Flora shook her head, lifting her fingers to wipe a wet strand of hair from her rain-dampened forehead.

“He was in the wash-tent,” she explained, earnestly. “I had to find someone who would tell me.”

The tacit meaning was clear:  _most had not offered to help._

Duncan let out a small sigh, returning his gaze to the troops drilling in the courtyard below. The Wardens were distinct in their navy and silverite armour; small figures moving in measured rhythm as they struck at the training dummies.

When he glanced sideways, Flora was also staring down at the sparring field, her expression thoughtful.

 _She’s got a beautiful mouth,_ the Warden-Commander realised, suddenly.  _Full and sulky; the sort where men want to kiss it repeatedly until it curves upwards into a smile._

“Flora,” he said, diverting himself forcibly from this dangerous train of thought. “I’ve heard that the other Wardens have made some unnecessary comments to you. Unkind remarks, if you will.”

“Oh,” Flora replied, shooting a quick sideways glance up at him. “Yes. But I don’t let them affect me.”

“You don’t?”

“No. I’m proud of what I am, even though I’m  _limited.”_

“And so you should be,” Duncan replied, grave and immediate. “Spirit healers are rare and a very valuable resource.  _Especially_ one such as yourself, with your ability to neutralise the taint.”

Flora turned to face him, with a look in her eyes like a Mabari before a dining table. It was clear that she had received scant praise during her time in the Circle; her talent obscure enough that it had not received due recognition.

“Thank you,” she breathed, with a shy gratitude emblazoned across her features –  _those strangely familiar_  features. “And I don’t mind what the others say. I think Alistair is getting a little less suspicious of me, which is good. He complimented my shielding during drill-practice the other day!”

Flora laughed and Duncan smiled at her, his mind wandering once again.

_I’ve noticed their growing ease with each other. Does she let him kiss that full mouth in the dark corner of their communal quarters?_

_Perhaps they’ve gone a step further. She might have opened her legs for him and let him rut her against a damp bedroll._

_No, Alistair still has the shy uncertainty of a virgin; I’d wager coin on it._

 

 

That night, Duncan pleasured himself for the first time in a week; slavishly grateful for the hot, liquid pulse of lust that drove away the insidious whispers of the taint.

He lay flat on his back, pumping a loose, callused fist along the length of his shaft; the occasional soft groan escaping his throat. At first, he tried to summon a memory of the Chantry sister with the lewd tongue; trying in vain to recall how she had looked with her mouth wrapping around his cock.

Instead, when Duncan closed his eyes, his newest mage recruit was standing before him; her pale, solemn gaze fixed on his face and the oxblood hair trailing loose like seaweed around her shoulders.

_Her woollen tunic hangs open; her small, high breasts are bared for me._

_I take a step towards her and she smiles, shy and blushing. She knows that I’m staring at her; she doesn’t want me to look away._

_She comes towards me, the blush on her cheeks matching the pinkness of her nipple._

_She takes my hand and lifts it to her mouth, sucking a finger between those full, sulky lips._

Duncan let out a half-strangled gasp as he climaxed, his seed shooting up to settle on his stomach. Heart still racing, he lay back on the bedroll and exhaled unsteadily, letting his damp hand drop beside him. As the liquidous relief of orgasm faded, he felt the tendrils of the taint snaking their way into the crevasses of his mind once again; dark snakes that sunk their fangs into the soft parts of his brain and clouded his thinking.

_Ah, Maker. I’m an old fool._


	2. The Kiss

Three days later, Cailan declared that he was going to lead an expedition into the Korcari Wilds. One of the scouts had found a Darkspawn nest a day and a half's ride to the south, and the king was bored with watching soldiers practice their drill. He had assembled a small company – no more than a dozen – and declared that they would leave for the swampland that very morning.

Naturally, it would not do to venture into the Wilds without taking at least one Grey Warden; who could sense the Darkspawn at a distance and thus give sufficient warning. Cailan - who admired both Flora's potent magical shield and the grave beauty of her features – had requested that she join the party.

At first, Duncan had assumed that Alistair would accompany his fellow recruit. The boy was growing in confidence daily; both in demeanour and ability. Unlikely as it seemed for a former Templar and a mage, the two had formed an odd friendship. They worked well together in the field; her shielding allowed for him to fearlessly unleash the full power of his muscled, youthful frame.

The evening before they were due to leave, Duncan had witnessed something that made him change his mind. They were gathered near the king's tent, listening to Loghain Mac Tir relay his list of stern instructions for a third time.

"Cailan, you'll be accompanied by the shield-mage whenever you leave camp. You don't take part in watches at night, nor do you attempt to take on a Darkspawn unaided."

Cailan let out a little grunt, clearly only half-listening to his father-in-law. Duncan glanced across at the young king; then noticed the slightly confused expression on Flora's face as she stood beside him.

As the Warden-Commander took a discreet step to the side and dropped his gaze, his suspicions were confirmed. The king's hand was moving over Flora's leather-clad rump in slow, exploratory motions; the slender fingers gently massaging her buttock. Flora herself looked perplexed; clearly unsure how to react.

The Warden-Commander felt a sudden surge of hot, liquid anger. Several weeks ago, Duncan had overheard Cailan making several lewd remarks about the new recruit's pretty breasts to Fergus Cousland; Duncan had warned him off in absolutely clear terms.

_Yet now he gropes her in broad daylight._

_The girl has no idea what to do; he is the king and has the right to do as he pleases, and she is a mage, with no rights at all._

_I don't think he would force himself on her, but he's charming and has the assurance of royalty. Like all mages freshly taken from a Circle, she's inexperienced and lacks understanding._

_Alistair won't be able to stand up to Cailan. He'd be put on sentry duty outside the tent, making sure nobody disturbs the king while Cailan fucks his latest object of affection, the pretty-breasted mage._

"Flora?"

Duncan's voice cut sharply over Loghain's lecture; the Rivaini's dark eyes focused on his new recruit. The general let out a pointed grunt of irritation, which the Warden-Commander thoroughly ignored.

"Flora, come here," Duncan continued, gesturing to the map spread out over the table before them. Flora obediently came to his side, following the direction of his finger to peer down at the map.

"This is the route you'll be taking," he explained, ignoring Loghain's glower and Cailan's petulant stare. "It's not far from where you rode out with Alistair last week."

Flora gave a little nod, and then shot him a grateful look from beneath her eyelashes.

Duncan cleared his throat, standing up straighter and letting the authority of a  _Commander of the Grey_ infuse his words.

"This route could be dangerous, Cailan. I'll accompany you in Alistair's stead; there should be a more experienced Warden in the party."

Cailan's petulant scowl deepened, but there was no reasonable argument to counter Duncan's offer.

"Fine," the king said, shortly. "We'll leave on the morrow."

As the company split apart in different directions, Duncan and Flora headed towards the crumbling steps that led down to the lower courtyard. He was waylaid three times on the way with questions and messages; each time, she stopped and waited quietly for him to continue.

Just as they were about to descend the steps, Duncan cleared his throat and paused beneath the cover of an ivy-clad archway. Flora stopped, turning her pale, cloud-coloured eyes curiously towards him.

"Sister-warden," he started, and then changed his mind.  _"Flora._ You'll never get into trouble for saying  _no_ to a man who touches you against your will."

Flora grimaced, darting a quick glance over her shoulder towards the royal enclosure.

"When I got taken to the Circle, my dad told me to stay away from  _men,"_ she said, the northern coast inflecting her tone. "I'm used to saying  _no._ But, don't you get into trouble if you say  _no_ to a king?"

"King or commoner, it doesn't matter," he retorted, a harsh edge to the reply. "You are always free to say  _no."_

"But I'm a mage," she replied, with a shrug of her shoulders. "Everyone keeps telling me I don't have the right to say anything."

Duncan felt the bitter taste of injustice rose once more in his throat; a dark swirl of anger at this backwards nation that still viewed their mages as chattel. He reached up, instinctively, to touch the golden earring that had been placed in his ear by a hedge-witch in Rivain. She had been an elder and much respected community leader within Dairsmuid.

"Ifwe get a peaceful moment over the next few days," he said, quietly. "I'll tell you about how women – and mages – are treated where I'm from. I think you'll find it rather enlightening, young sister."

 

Early the next morning, the king and his company rode out into the murky swampland of the Korcari Wilds. It was an overcast and drizzly autumnal morning, which only added to the desolation of the marshy terrain. The horses picked their way along half-rotted boardwalks and overgrown trails, past stagnant pools of water that gave off a fetid odour. The trees were hunched and wilting; their branches trailing downwards like an old man's limp fingers.

No Darkspawn troubled them for the majority of the day. The only sign of life was a lone, mangy wolf that offered a thin growl before skulking off into the undergrowth. By lunchtime, Cailan's scowl was deeply ingrained into his forehead – he had expected that his sword-arm would have seen some action by this point.

The afternoon passed in similar fashion. The horses continued doggedly onwards, tails flicking away the various biting insects that tended to congregate around stagnant water.

From the rear of the party, Duncan swept his eyes appraisingly over the small company that Cailan had chosen to bring into the Wilds.

_A scout, who looks in need of a rest. Several noble sons; I doubt those expensive silverite swords have seen much real action. A Circle mage hiding from the rain beneath the hood of his cape. And then Flora and I. Although I volunteered myself for this expedition._

His dark, thoughtful gaze rose once again to settle on his recruit's narrow back. Flora, a true northern girl, had no cloak or hood to shield herself from the rain. Instead, she was focused wholly on staying abreast the saddle; hunched over with the reins clutched tight into her palms.  _Riding a horse_  was one of the skills that Flora had needed to learn quickly after being plucked so unexpectedly from the Circle.

Not thinking on his actions too deeply, Duncan spurred his horse onwards with a nudge to the ribs; advancing until he was riding alongside his newest recruit. Flora shot him an anxious sideways glance, not daring to take her eyes from the horse's neck for more than a moment. He noticed that she was biting on that plump and pink lower lip; and had a sudden compulsion to save it from further trauma.

"I don't think this horse likes me very much! Animals  _never like me."_

"Here," the Warden-Commander offered quietly, reaching out to untangle the reins from Flora's clenched fingers. "If you hold them with your thumbs resting there – there, just like that – then you gain better control of the creature."

She did so, and appeared marginally more comfortable. Duncan lifted his head and glanced around, listening to the all-too-keen taint as it thrummed in his bloodstream.

_No Darkspawn in the area. I can tell the presence of my brethren a mile off._

_How much of a man am I still on the inside?_

Duncan knew that, if the Fifth Blight had not reared its ugly head that year, he would have instead been making preparations for his own final expedition into the Deep Roads. Forcing himself not to dwell on it, he glanced sideways at Flora.

From this angle, the well-hewn profile of her face was obvious; the high brow, tilted nose and sharp, lofty cheekbones. There was a solemn gravity to Flora's face that added a distinct touch of melancholy to its beauty.

_That isn't a face bred from peasant stock, no matter the lowly intonation of that voice. She must be some noble's bastard._

_Damn this taint-corrupted memory of mine – I cannot retrieve the man who is her likeness. I've seen those same pale grey eyes within the past few months. But where?_

"Warden-Commander?" asked Flora, and then remembered that the Wardens – as a brotherhood – called each other by name. " _Duncan._ What were you going to tell me about where you were from?"

Duncan took one final glance around the area – the fetid swampland and hunched trees appeared quiet enough for the moment. Patting the horse's neck, he cleared his throat and summoned the memory of the arid plains of his homeland.

_At least the taint has not yet woven its way into this deepest part of my mind._

"Rivain doesn't follow the Andrastrian faith," he said quietly, nudging his horse around a rotted log that lay across the trail. "We believe in a  _natural order_ instead, where the world itself is worshipped. There is no organised church, and the Chantry holds no power other than in the capital, Dairsmuid. There are also many who follow the  _Qun_ within Rivain."

He glanced sideways, curious to see if Flora appeared shocked. She was listening with her solemn grey eyes wide and thoughtful; yet there was no censure writ across that lovely, grave face.

"Much of the prejudice against mages in the rest of Thedas is spread by the Chantey, which fears them," Duncan continued quietly, aware that his words had now taken on a vaguely heretical air. "There is no such prejudice in Rivain. Mages are respected and revered within our communities;  _especially_ those which commune with the spirits, such as yourself."

Flora's eyebrows shot into her dark red hairline and then immediately sank in puzzlement. Even in the little fishing village of Herring, where she had lived until being captured by Templars at fifteen, her magical talent had been valued but not questioned. She had breathed new life into the drowned and shielded skulls from the improvised weapons of would-be wreckers; yet her dad had always warned her not to talk about her strange connection with the denizens of the Fade.

"I can't imagine that," Flora replied eventually, a touch of wistfulness to her tone. "Some mages are  _revered?_ What does that mean?"

"Almost  _worshipped_ ," explained Duncan, recalling her lack of formal education. "Especially if they are female. Our society is run by women – always has been – and many of our elders are also mages. It was a village elder, a hedge-witch, who gave me this."

The Warden-Commander touched the golden earring that hung from his ear, surprised that he had confessed as much.

Flora looked thoughtful for several moments, and then flashed him a rare smile.

"How interesting. Thank you for telling me."

Duncan opened his mouth to reply, and then Cailan's petulant voice drifted back from the head of the party.

" _Duncan,_ I'm beginning to believe that what Loghain says is true and there  _is_ no Blight! Where are all the bloody  _Darkspawn?! I'm getting bored!"_

Flora shot Duncan a sympathetic look, shifting position on the saddle. He glanced at her quickly, and then let out a slightly exasperated grunt; spurring his horse onwards to overtake the others.

 

The king got his wish just after sunset, when they were setting up a ring of tents around a campfire. They were in a clearing surrounded by drooping trees, a high bank of earth rising up on one side to provide protection from the chilly autumn wind. A stagnant stream ran down the opposite side of the camp; the water fetid and unappetising. A grey drizzle had begun to fall as the light waned. It was a most inopportune time for the Darkspawn to strike – swords had been set to one side, arms were full of tent-poles and cooking utensils.

Duncan had given a warning shout of about ten breaths before the assault. He had been one of the few who had not relinquished his weapon. Bundles of canvas were dropped, iron pots went rolling across the grass and men ran for their blades.

Fortunately, it was not the main bulk of the Darkspawn forces; but a small patrol of a half-dozen Hurlocks and Genlocks. One was incinerated within seconds by the terrified Circle mage, who then ran for cover behind a tree as a massive Hurlock charged towards him. Cailan, with a roar of delight, strode across the marshy ground with his great-sword swinging.

Duncan had dispatched two with a single, fluid sweep of his blades; the silver swords gleaming as they carved through tainted flesh. Breathing hard, he turned towards the king; thrusting one mutilated Genlock bodily away with a shove of his elbow.

Cailan was squaring off against a vast Hurlock; his handsome face contorted in an effort to look as fearsome as the creature before him. The Hurlock gave a throaty snarl, unimpressed, and raised its rusting, serrated blade. Cailan lifted his own royal sword in response, and Duncan let out a shout of warning.

" _Do not face it alone, Cailan!"_

The Hurlock brought down an executioner's blow, and the edge of its corrupted blade struck a thin veil of silvered light. A gleaming shield had sprung up around the king's body, made up of tiny interconnected strands, like a sheath of gilded spider's web. It looked gossamer thin, as though it could be dissolved with a single puff of air; yet the Hurlock's increasingly enraged blows made no impression in its delicate framework.

Cailan lifted his own blade, and made a wild strike outwards. The shield allowed his blade through, and it carved a great gash in the Hurlock's chest. The monster staggered, and then a pair of blades moved in a scissoring gesture about its neck; quick as silvered trout darting in a stream. Its severed head fell to the grass, and Duncan lowered his blades, exhaling with measured steadiness.

The sounds of battle fell quiet; the crows perched in the branches overheard resumed their cawing. The Darkspawn lay dead, strewn about the clearing in various states of mutilation. Their blood, blackened and fetid, quickly began to coagulate in steaks on the grass.

Cailan let out a cry of victory and strode over to one of his noble companions to exchange congratulations.

"Ha! They'll think twice before challenging us again."

Duncan lowered his blades and swept a cool, appraising eye around the clearing. The scout had a bite-mark on his arm, and the Circle mage's leg had a deep wound from a blade. One of the other nobles, a local bann, had inhaled a gulp of tainted miasma and was vomiting into the bushes. Flora was standing beside an abandoned tangled of canvas and poles, her staff in hand and her eyes wide. 

Sheathing his sword, the Warden-Commander stepped over the leaking corpse of a Genlock without sparing it a glance; striding towards her over the grass. The scout let out a frightened moan, inspecting his bitten arm, and Duncan gestured for the man to follow him.

"Flora," he said, with the terseness of a commander in the field. "They've been infected. Can you assist?"

Flora nodded; her spirits had already whispered their instructions through the Veil. She sat down in the grass, and the scout lowered himself awkwardly beside her; the blood draining from his face as he shivered in fear.

"I don't want to turn into one of 'em," he whispered, voice quavering as he stared down at the bitemark. The edges were a sour, blackish-green; already, thin, spidery veins were seeping outwards into the skin. "Please, mage."

"You won't," Flora assured him, her voice growing hoarse as the creation energy rolled up her throat. "I promise. Keep still."

She bent her head, stray strands of hair hanging down beside her collar as she planted her mouth directly on the tainted wound. She then took a deep breath, her shoulders quivering as she  _inhaled_ the taint from the injury, the rotten-sweet taste of Blight flooding her mouth. The next moment, it was neutralised by a rush of her own gilded energy, rolling into her mouth and passing into the man's wound.

As Flora was busy practising her own peculiar form of magic, Duncan went to assist the limping mage; helping him over the bloodied grass to sit down beside the other casualty.

At first the mage was too busy clamping a hand to his leg and groaning to pay attention to what Flora was doing. Eventually, he stopped whimpering and eyed her in perplexion; focusing on her rhythmic  _inhalation_ and  _exhalation._

"Blood of the Maker," the mage commented, temporarily distracted from his own discomfort. "I've never seen anyone heal like  _that_ before."

Flora lifted her bloodied mouth from the scout's forearm, peering down at the fruits of her labour. The man's skin was pink and unblemished, but for a faint pallid outline of ragged toothmarks.

"There," she said thickly, lips and tongue numb from the passage of magic. "There's no taint left."

Near-weeping with relief, the scout clambered to his feet. He made straight for his abandoned pack, where a small bottle of fire-whiskey had been stashed. Once he had taken several gulps of liquid courage, he returned across the grass; handing the bottle to the mage.

Flora took a deep breath, feeling the golden magic blossoming inside the crevasses and curlicues of her lungs. As the mage drew his robes up to his knee, she bent down and put her mouth to his shin. This wound was deeper but far less complex to mend; the blade had not been tainted. She exhaled her rejuvenative breath into the ragged tear, slender strands of muscle and sinew coaxed forth from the bloodied flesh.

The gilded energy had an anaesthetising property to it, and the mage let out a small sigh at the interlude from the pain. He leaned back against the tree-trunk and watched the top of Flora's dark red head as it bent over his shin; more fascinated than frightened.

"It's very  _unusual,"_ the mage continued, glancing up at the stoic Warden-Commander as he stood expressionless to one side. "I've seen mages use their fingers to knit wounds before, but never their  _mouths."_

He took another long gulp of fire-whiskey, the bottle now almost drained. A hiccup, and then a half-giggle emerged from his throat; a western accent shaping his words more strongly.

"Hey, it must be a shock for the men you've kissed, lass. Do they find 'emselves with a mouthful of magic?"

Duncan's dark eyes narrowed, yet he – for self-interested and slightly shameful reasons – remained silent.

Flora lifted her head and inspected her work once again; a consummate professional. The skin had been sealed over, only a barely distinguishable scar marking where the blade had cut deep into the flesh. She wiped her mouth free of stray gilded particles of magic, before responding to the man's question.

"Well, I've never  _kissed_  anyone," she replied placidly, and Duncan felt his heart give an erratic lurch. "So I wouldn't know. Maybe?"

 

Since nobody wanted to camp amidst streaks of tainted blood, they relocated the tents, horses and cooking supplies to the other side of the riverbank. The moon emerged from behind a veil of cloud, clear and bright as a drop of milk; casting a benevolent glow over the marshy clearing. The tents were quickly assembled, a fire started and meat placed on a spit above the flames.

The expedition sat around the fire on the damp grass – save for Cailan, who had the royal privilege of a blanket. Passing around a flagon of whisky, the king delighted in retelling the story of the earlier ambush. To Flora's quiet amusement, he left out the part where her gleaming shield had prevented his skull from being caved in by a Hurlock's blade; editing the events until he had heroically taken down the creature unaided.

Flora did not care about the lack of recognition; four years of life in a Circle had taught her that it was best to keep one's head below the parapet. She was perfectly content to sit quietly and eat her rabbit stew – as content as one could be while sitting in the middle of a haunted marsh with an army of Darkspawn somewhere in the vicinity.

"Dora!"

Only  _one_ person in the company consistently got her name incorrect. Flora looked up with slight trepidation, peering around the flames to meet Cailan's amused hazel stare.

"The mage – well, the  _other_ mage – tells me that you've never kissed a man!" the king said, jovially; Flora felt her heart sink. "Such a shame, for a pretty creature like you to go unappreciated."

"Well, I'm feeling generous tonight," Cailan continued, with the light, superficial charm that had coaxed so many into his tent. "Would you like me to…  _enlighten_ you in the art?"

There followed a few snickers from the other men around the fire. Flora did not have to look at her commander to know that he was bristling; anger flashing in the depths of his dark pupils. The golden earring hanging from his earlobe glinted in the fire, and she thought of hedge-witches, and elders, and a land where women were in positions of command.

_You are always free to say no,_ Duncan's voice echoed in the back of her skull.

"No, thank you," Flora said out loud, polite and disinterested as though she were declining a cup of tea.

" _No?!"_

"No."

Cailan's noble companion let out a guffaw and elbowed the king, his teeth flashing very white in the darkness. Cailan scowled, but quickly recovered in order to save face.

"Well, my dear! You know where my tent is," he offered, the teasing tone undercut with a vein of resentment.

Flora replied with a placid and noncommittal smile; grateful that her accommodation was opposite to the king's sleeping quarters. As Cailan turned the conversation once more to his heroic role in the earlier ambush, she darted a quick glance sideways at Duncan.

As Flora had suspected, he was looking at her with approval, and something  _else_ that she could not quite decipher. She peered at him through the fire-lit gloom; he held her gaze for a moment longer and then quickly averted his stare to the volatile movement of the flames.

 

Much later that night, when the watches had been assigned and the rest of the company retired to their tents, Duncan sat at the top of the riverbank and gazed out across the marshes. The stars had emerged, scattered in a great wash across the sky as though a dwarven jewel-smith had upended his wares over a rich, dark carpet. Between the starlight and the smouldering remains of the campfire; the clearing was relatively well-lit, Duncan was able to see the fine lines creasing the backs of his hands in all-too-clear detail.

The Warden-Commander had volunteered to take several watches in a row. With his body so afflicted by the taint, he barely slept; it took him hours to cross the Veil, and the slightest disturbance was enough to draw him back into the waking word. Even when he did sleep, his dreams were strange and disjointed; made up of macabre visions and the insidious whispering of an old god.

Weary - but with sleep eluding him - Duncan tried to ignore the sore muscles that suggested a man of his years should not be sitting on damp grass. He had removed the bulk of his armour to ease the pressure on his body, and even drunk a half-dram of whiskey to try and numb the constant ache.

Just then, a movement to one side of the campsite caught the corner of his eye. Duncan went to reach for his blade, and then arrested the movement abruptly as he recognised his own recruit. Flora was clad in a standard issue nightshirt intended for dwarves – the human version was too tall for her. This nightshirt did not fit particularly well either; but at least it matched her short stature a little better. She padded across the damp grass barefoot, avoiding the discarded plates and knives from the evening meal. Her hair was loose, hanging in thick, dark red ropes around her shoulders.

"Your watch doesn't start for another candle and a half, Flora," Duncan said quietly, half-turning his head as she sat down on the damp grass beside him.

She gave a pensive little nod, fiddling idly with a loose thread on her sleeve as she gazed down towards the stagnant river below. His recruit appeared to be deep in thought, her brow slightly furrowed and the lush lips parted.

The Warden-Commander committed his eyes to her more fully; swivelling his head in her direction. Reluctantly, his gaze dropped to the loose neckline of the nightshirt. Designed for a broad dwarven chest rather than a slender human female, the loose fabric hung precariously from Flora's shoulder. When she leaned forward to peel a strand of wet grass from her foot, he saw the whole curve of her small breast, pale and speckled like a goose egg.

_I was right,_ Duncan's rational mind managed to produce, even as the blood rushed south to swell his cock.  _Her nipples are the shade of her blushing cheeks._

"Did you have an ill dream?" he asked in measured tones, painfully erect beneath the leather trousers. "Most new Wardens suffer from night-terrors after their Joining."

Flora shook her head, absentmindedly hoisting the slipping nightshirt higher up on her shoulder.

"No," she said, slightly uncertain. "I was – I was thinking."

"Thinking about what?"

Flora bit the full lower lip once again, but fell silent this time, her brow furrowed with indecision. She was staring at the shadowed surface of the water as though expecting it to provide an answer.

Duncan turned his head fully, curious as to whether Flora was talking to her spirits. At that moment, she took a deep breath and twisted her body towards him, putting one hand on the grass to steady herself. Leaning forward, she brought her mouth to within inches of his own and then paused with caught breath; giving him a chance to withdraw.

Duncan made no such movement, made no attempt to move at all, even though the blood felt like it was surging around his body like a galloping horse. The pounding of his frantic heartbeat echoed in his ears; loud enough to drown out the voice of caution. His erection was pulsing so furiously that he was sure that she could see its outline against his trousers.

Then her mouth was there; the full, plush lips pressed against his own, tentative and wondering. It became clear very quickly that this was no swift familial peck, but a lingering, curious adult kiss. Her mouth felt warm against his, the lips soft and yielding; and laced with the sweet vitality of youth.

After a few moments, Flora drew back, her cheeks flushed and eyes wide. Suddenly overcome with shyness, she glanced down at her knees; astounded at her own uncharacteristic daring.

"Sorry," she whispered to her own bare feet. "I was just curious to see what it was like."

Duncan, caught between disbelief and desire, stared at his newest recruit wordlessly. He could still taste the residual sweetness of her lips; and suddenly a name sprung to the forefront of his memory.

_Cousland. She's got the Cousland colouring. That crimson hair, the pale grey eyes. She even holds her head like the teyrn, her lips parted and her expression solemn. She's from the north coast, which is his land._

_Is she a bastard, or…?_

Duncan realised abruptly that Flora was still staring at him, those familiar eyes round and anxious. He wanted to ask her there and then if she had any relation to Bryce Cousland; but there was something about the tremor of her lips and the flush of her cheeks that dissuaded him.

He reached out and touched the side of her face, running his calloused thumb down the line of her jaw. She swallowed visibly; her pulse still racing in her throat.

The small voice in Duncan's head urged him to leave it at that; to send her back to her tent with a gentle rebuke and a wish for pleasant dreams.

Instead, he continued to caress the line of her jaw with his thumb; aware that she was still trembling and nervous beneath him.

"You're a very beautiful girl," Duncan murmured quietly, and it was a statement of fact rather than a compliment. "But too young for me. You should be kissing a boy of your own years, such as Alistair."

He continued to admire her face, thumb caressing her face with small, intimate strokes.

"Alistair is still a little bit afraid of me," Flora breathed, the flush deepening beneath his caresses. "He puts a breastplate between our bedrolls at night. And I… I wanted to feel what a kiss was like, just in case – the final battle comes soon."

She trailed off, her eyes widening as Duncan – ignoring the voices of caution – ran his thumb with provocative slowness over her lower lip.

"You should go back to your tent," he said thickly, the Rivaini intonation emerging to shape each insincere word. "Sister-warden."

"Yes," Flora whispered, wetting her lips with her tongue.

He reached for her as she reached for him, coming together in an embrace of mutual desire. As though thinking with a single mind, they lay down together on the riverbank; bodies aligned and limbs entwined. Aware of Flora's inexperience, Duncan took the lead; pressing a series of teasing kisses along the bottom of her lower lip, using his teeth to gently nip at the plump flesh. His tongue then teased the outline of her mouth, licking the indentation at the top and lapping at the fullness of the bottom. As he lavished tender affection on her lips, his hand stroked at other parts of her body – rubbing her thigh, caressing her arm, massaging the small of her back.

_You have to be gentle with this girl,_ he thought to himself, feeling her heartbeat racing within her chest.  _You've spent years fucking women roughly; taking them on all fours or between their buttocks. Remember when you were a youth; and made love with tenderness and passion?_

_Besides, she only wants a kiss._

He paused, lifting his head to peer down at Flora's face in the shadows. She appeared slightly dazed from his attentions; her cheeks pink and pupils blown wide.

"Shall I stop?" Duncan asked quietly, and she shook her head, reaching up to draw his face down to hers. Their bodies shifted slightly on the damp grass, his hips angled alongside her pelvis.

This time, he focused on coaxing her lips apart. He pressed a series of lingering kisses against her mouth, working it open with gentle insistence. Finally, their wet lips were parted together; heated breath mingling as they breathed in the essence of the other.

Duncan spent a pleasurable few minutes exploring her with his tongue. He licked a line along the roof of her mouth, and then gently sucked at her own tongue. He could feel Flora trembling against him; the occasional choked gasp muffled by his kiss. He then parted his lips and let her return the gesture; her tongue venturing tentatively around his desirous mouth.

Slowly, tenderly, he eased her into the rhythm of a kiss. Flora quickly learnt the languid pattern of two mouths working together, the slick wetness of conjoined lips and the give-and-take motion of the tongues. When she nibbled tentatively at his lower lip, Duncan let out a hoarse, involuntary groan.

They kissed without any comprehension of the passage of time; entwined together on the damp grass of the riverbank. Duncan was vaguely aware of the folly of this – they were deep in enemy territory – but thrust the warning to the back of his mind. He had just learnt that when he alternated between suckling her tongue and biting her lower lip, his recruit made a whimper that went straight to his cock; naturally, he wanted to hear Flora make this noise as often as possible.

Their passionate embrace was almost discovered when the scout wandered out from his tent to empty his bladder in the river. By the time that he arrived on the bank, Duncan and Flora were sitting several yards apart on the grass. Fortunately it was dark enough that the scout could not see her dishevelled hair and grass-stained nightshirt. Indeed, she was unsure if the dozing man had even noticed her at all.

Though the scout had no idea that she was there, Flora could feel the heat of Duncan's eyes on her, his stare desirous and intensely focused. It made her hot, and fidgety; anticipation and shyness mingling in her gut.

The scout exchanged a few lines of grunted conversation with the Warden-Commander before stumbling back towards his own tent. Almost before the canvas flap had fallen into place; Flora was back in Duncan's arms, their kissing all the more fervent for being interrupted.

They changed position several times on the riverbank; first lying side by side with his thigh thrust firmly between her legs, then her sprawled on top of him, his hand gently stroking her rear as their mouths worked together. Finally, he rolled her onto her back and positioned himself on top of her; resting his weight on elbows and knees. She curled her arms around his neck while hooking a leg around his waist, letting out a moan that was a blatant invitation.

_Don't take out your cock,_ the small voice of warning echoed in Duncan's ear.  _She's just lust-struck._

Instead, he kissed his newest recruit with renewed intensity, evoking a little whimper of delight as he massaged her tongue with his own. To his surprise, the world seemed to be getting sharper in focus around him; the blurred edges of his vision gaining clarity. He could taste the sweetness of her mouth, and his body seemed to have regained some of its lost sensitivity. He could feel the frantic pulse of her heartbeat beneath those pert little breasts; hear the soft rustle of a fieldmouse in the grass several yards away.

_Her strange magic neutralises the taint,_ he realised, through the haze of desire.  _It must be alleviating the corruption of my body._

As the sky began to lighten, their kisses became slower and more languid in pace; their tongues moving in sensuous tandem. Duncan had allowed his fingers to wander around her body – stroking her inner thigh and the soft underside of her breast through the linen. His tongue dipped lazily in and out of her panting mouth as he circled a stiff, linen-covered nipple with his thumb. With great difficulty, he had restrained himself from slipping his hand beneath the nightshirt.

They shared a final, lingering kiss just as the first sliver of sun edged above the eastern horizon; their mouths parting with a slick reluctance. Duncan sat up with some difficulty, his cock uncomfortably hard within his breeches.

_Spilling yourself three times and ready for a fourth,_ he thought, astounded.  _Not since I was a youth._

Flora shot him a shy smile, her hair in wild disarray and her lips bruised from his affection. He noticed that her nipples were pushing against the linen nightshirt; she blushed when she saw him looking, but made no attempt to cover herself. Flora was fully aware that her commander was equally aroused, since she had spent the past hour nudging tentatively against his rigid shaft; curiosity and excitement mingling in her core.

"Thank you," she said solemnly, feeling faintly ridiculous for speaking so formally considering what they had just engaged in. "I appreciate it."

"It was my pleasure," replied Duncan, with equal gravity. "I was happy to… to offer my assistance."

Flora nodded, took a step towards the tents, and then hesitated. When she spoke, her voice was soft and directed to her feet.

"There's other things I wanted to… to try. Before the final battle. In case – in case I don't get a chance to in the future."

Duncan felt a pulse of hot, liquid lust, deep in his gut.

"Think about what you'd like to try," he replied, forcing himself to keep his voice steady. "And come to my tent tonight."

_Better me than the king,_ the Warden-Commander thought to himself as he watched his new recruit shuffle across the wet grass towards her tent.  _Or some callous and inexperienced youth, who'll just use her and discard her._

_I took her from the Circle, I recognised her unique talents. I appreciate and value her. It_ should _be me._

 

As the sun rose fully above the Korcari Wilds and the camp awakened for the day; Duncan began to wonder if the events of the previous night had been a dream. Over breakfast, Flora sat beside him, as was customary; her attention – as was usual – focused on her food. She had a ferocious appetite for a slender girl; although this had been exacerbated by the process of the Joining. Cailan continued to boast about the events of the previous day, and wonder gleefully what foes they would encounter in the hours to come.

Duncan gave the occasional grunt in response, preoccupied with the rich taste of breakfast. For the first time in months, he was able to taste the nuances of basil and pepper added to the eggs; the scent of bacon made his mouth water.

_My senses have been so dulled by the taint. I'd forgotten what food tasted like._

_The mage was right; she can't help healing, even as she kisses._

As they packed up the camp, Flora asked Duncan an innocuous question about Darkspawn mages. He gave a fully detailed response; at which she nodded solemnly and thanked him. As she turned to leave, he reached out and put a hand on her arm; trusting that the others were too busy with their equipment to notice.

_Last night we lay together in the damp grass, kissing like the Archdemon was going to lay waste to Ferelden. You let me fondle your breasts and cup your buttocks through your nightshirt._

His dark eyes fixed themselves on her pale irises, chips of coal meeting ice; the fine lines at their corners only adding to the intensity of his stare.

_I know the face you make when I gently rub your nipple between finger and thumb. I know the little sounds that come from your mouth when I press my thigh between your legs. You've felt my erect cock throb against your thigh._

_There's no way that we can return to being merely Warden-Commander and recruit; not now I've seen you the way I have. For good or for ill._

Duncan could feel her pulse racing beneath her thumb, accompanied by a rosy flush blossoming in her cheeks. Flora peered up at him beneath her eyelashes, her face grave and thoughtful. Then she smiled, and the Warden-Commander irrationally felt his heart lurch within his chest.

_You old fool,_ he thought to himself, with a touch of sudden frustration as she wandered off to retrieve her pack.  _She's nineteen years old, and you're a man in his greying hairs acting like a moonstruck youth._


	3. In the Saddle

Anywhere else in Ferelden, it might have been a clear and crisp autumnal day. Yet in the depths of the Wilds, the sky seemed to always be the colour of a bruised apple; the atmosphere oscillating between humidity and an unpleasant clamminess that stuck one's collar to one's neck. The pools of stagnant water reflected the dull pallor of the sky, and the undergrowth seemed to grow denser and more entangled the deeper they penetrated.

Cailan was in good spirits, whistling and talking amiably with his noble companions at the head of the party. After a quick detour, the scout had found the right trail and they were now  _en route_ to the Darkspawn nest. The mage clung to his reins nervously; the least experienced of the company. Even Flora, who had only been at Ostagar for a month, had ventured into the Wilds on nearly a dozen occasions. He rode in the middle of the party, his Ferelden Forder twitching its tail as it detected the worry of its rider.

Flora, who was more nervous of her horse than she was the Darkspawn, was trying to copy the relaxed gait of the bann riding before her. The young lord was rising up and down in the saddle, natural as though he were part of the beast itself. When Flora tried to match this fluid, rhythmic motion; she felt her rear slam painfully and repeatedly into the leather of the saddle. Slightly sulkily, she abandoned her attempt to ride gracefully and focused on merely  _not falling off_.

Duncan brought up the rear of the party; a silent and brooding figure that nobody had spoken to all morning for fear of being snapped at. In reality, the Rivaini had been struck dumb with astonishment at how  _vibrant_ the world now appeared – even in the depths of the murky Wilds. The landscape was no longer a uniform shade of muddy brown but a collage of russet, tawny and amber hues, each clump of foliage subtly different in shade and shape from its neighbour. He could hear the chirping of crickets from the reeds underfoot; the croak of a raven from the highest branch of a nearby birch. When they had stopped to water the horses, someone had passed Duncan a flagon of ale, and he had been able to taste the wheat and barley notes in the alcohol for the first time in a decade.

 _Maker's Breath,_ he thought to himself in astonishment.  _All this from a kiss._

_Well, from a lot of them; over the course of several hours. But, still._

_Clever girl._

Duncan lifted his dark eyes to focus them on his newest recruit as she slithered inelegantly over the saddle. Even when hunched atop a horse, with her hair dishevelled and feet askew; the slender curvature of her body was unmistakable. The pert buttocks - which he had fondled earlier through her linen nightshirt – were now encased in punishingly tight calfskin. He watched her leather-clad rear bounce atop the saddle for several moments; inwardly marvelling at how vigorous his cock seemed to be in recent weeks.

_I need to teach her how to ride properly at some point. She's lacking a lot of skills that she needs to thrive outside the Circle._

_That's what you should be teaching her, you old Rivaini lecher. You should teach her how to handle a horse and how to exchange money for goods; not how to kiss._

_Though, she hasn't yet requested assistance with the horse. And she did want to try a kiss._

Duncan's throat was suddenly very dry, to the point where it was difficult to swallow. Flora's request from earlier rung about his skull; the words whispered in her throaty, lowborn tones that incongruously emerged from such an elegant, well-bred throat.

_There's other things I want to try._

A series of images flashed through Duncan's mind, each one lewder and more shameful than the last.

_My hand working between her thighs, bringing her to what I suspect will be her first climax._

_Those full, pouting lips wrapped around my cock; mouth and fingers following my gentle guidance._

_Flora, naked and sweaty, pressed down into the mattress as I spend my seed deep within her._

_A Hurlock sinking its rotten teeth into her neck as she crumples to the –_

" _Darkspawn!"_ the Warden-Commander bellowed; recognising the insidious tendrils snaking their way inside his skull. "Ready yourselves!"

Suddenly, there came a whistling noise from one side; too fast for anyone to react. The scout, riding at the head of the party, let out a sudden shout of pain and toppled from the saddle. The company descended from their horses in a melee of confusion; swords yanked from sheathes and shields falling to the ground in their haste. The scout's horse had bolted in terror, fleeing with its reins flying straight towards the enemy. The next moment, they heard the beast squeal in pain as it was set upon by the approaching Hurlocks.

The delay bought the ambushed company a few precious moments to prepare. Duncan dismounted in seconds and drew his twin blades, anger flashing in the depths of his dark eyes. Cailan, fuelled on excitement and adrenaline, was bellowing a challenge into the miasmic air; battering his shield with the handle of his sword.

Flora had fallen off her horse as it reared upwards in panic, not yet experienced enough to keep it under control. Fortunately, they had been wading through a fetlock-deep marsh at the time, and the water had cushioned her landing. Lurching upright with pondweed streaming from her hair, she began to splash her way towards the fallen scout.

Duncan had seen his young healer fall from the corner of his eye; he watched long enough to see her clamber upright before lunging to the king's defence. Four Hurlocks had targeted Cailan with preternatural intelligence, converging on him with their rusted blades held aloft.

The mage proved himself more useful than he had been the previous day, sending forth a great plasmic ball of flame to incinerate two Darkspawn in their tracks. Cailan, defended by Duncan's flashing silverite blades, was able to cut down a Genlock as it reached for a fresh arrow. Two of the nobles chased down a heavily bleeding Hurlock, splashing through the fetid water in hot pursuit. It turned on them, prepared to fight tooth and claw until the very moment of its death.

Flora sat in the shallow water beside the scout; her hands moving in subtle movements that had been imparted by no  _mortal_  teacher. Flashes of silvergold light erupted around the field of battle; her shield manifesting in the blink of an eye to intercept a rusted blade or a clawed lunge. Her barrier flickered in and out of existence, tangible just long enough to deflect the blow before evaporating into the ether. It was a intricate, complex piece of arcane orchestration; Flora could feel her spirits whispering in her ear, directing her movements and guiding her actions.

The air fell quiet again as the last of the ambushers were cut down, putrid corpses strewn across the marshy ground. Duncan lowered his blades, breathing hard and shallow; the ache returning to his beleaguered bones as the adrenaline faded. He swung a quick eye around the grassy ridges that surrounded them, listening for the tell-tale  _hum_  in the back of his skull that indicated his brethren were near.

"We're clear," he said shortly, and one of the nobles gave a whoop of congratulations.

"If only a scribe were here," the king said, wistfully. "They could record every detail of my heroism. I'm afraid I won't be able to remember it all by the time we get back to Ostagar!"

Muttering several colourful Rivaini swear words under his breath, Duncan dipped his blades into the muddy water; rinsing the worst of the Darkspawn blood away before sheathing them once more.

Turning away from the gloating king, the Warden-Commander strode his way upstream. Flora was kneeling in the water beside the scout, her head bowed to his shoulder. Her hair had come loose – probably during her inglorious tumble from the saddle – and fell in a dark red mass down her back, the ends long enough to trail in the water.

Duncan did not say anything; he did not want to distract her. Instead, he watched the movement of the lips that had worked his own so enthusiastically the previous night. They parted and came together, breathing out a gilded vapour that sunk into the gaping wound. Before his eyes, the skin knitted together; strands of flesh and muscle entwining beneath the ministrations of her mouth.

 _Those lips should be used for healing,_ the Warden-Commander thought, guiltily.  _You should see her mouth only as a tool._

_Your lust for her is a distraction._

Once she had finished, Flora leaned forward and eyeballed her own handiwork, sternly. She was a perfectionist out of necessity when it came to her healing; any shoddy mending and her spirits would hiss their disapproval in her ears.

The scout opened his eyes and stared at her, then twisted his head to gaze at his unblemished shoulder.

"Maker's Breath," he said after a moment, eyebrows rising.

" _Flora's_ breath," corrected Flora, then shot the man a sympathetic look. "I'd ask for a pay rise, if I were you."

Duncan stepped forward and dropped a hand to her shoulder; giving it a rough, awkward pat.

_A pat? Like you would reward a Mabari? You old fool._

"Well done, young sister," he commented, hoping that she would not notice the slight stiltedness in his voice. "Very impressive."

But Flora had not heard the peculiarity of his tone; she had only heard the praise contained within. This was something that she had received precious little of during her four years in the Circle. Healing and shielding were surplus to requirement in such a strictly controlled environment; she had received few opportunities to demonstrate her talent.

"Thank you," she replied, earnestly.

Once equipment had been gathered up and composure regained, the company prepared to resume their journey. There was an old Tevinter temple marked on the map; the scout proposed that they aim to reach it by nightfall. Since his own horse had met an unfortunate end in a tangle of Hurlocks, it was decided that he should take Flora's horse.

"She can barely stay on the saddle as it is," commented Cailan snidely, who had benefited from hours of riding tutelage as a child. "That was the  _third_ time you've fallen off today."

"Fourth," clarified the miserable Flora. She was wet, cold, and reasonably certain that her bottom was bruised; either from the saddle, or one of the many tumbles from it.

"My recruit will ride with me," Duncan interrupted, a note of cold reproval ringing through the words. "And Cailan, I'm surprised that you haven't offered Warden Flora your thanks, yet. Her shield saved your life on at least three occasions during that fight."

The king fell into a sulky silence; aware that he was being reprimanded.

 

The company resumed their journey south, the light fading around them as the sun sunk lower into the horizon. The scout – bundled up in an extra layer of armour – rode at the head of the column. Fortunately, the undergrowth and trees were starting to grow more sparse about them; lessening the likelihood of another ambush.

At the back of the party, Duncan was assessing the wisdom of his decision to have Flora astride the saddle before him. The seat was not designed for two people, so – by necessity - she was nestled close against his body; his thighs pressing hers into the horse's flank.

"Young sister," he said quietly, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the trail ahead.

"Mm?"

"I want to apologise for what happened last night."

Keeping one hand on the saddle to steady herself, Flora swivelled just enough to peer up at him; her grey eyes wide and questioning.

"Why?" she asked, curiously.

A myriad of different reasons tangled together in Duncan's mind as he tried not to look directly at her grave and lovely face.

_Because you're three decades younger than me. I was a grown man when you were a babe._

_Because I'm your commanding officer._

_Because I let myself be guided by my cock, rather than by my brain._

"I shouldn't have kissed you," he continued instead, determinedly avoiding her confused stare. "Nor touched you… inappropriately. I apologise."

_Those sounds you made, though. I wish I could have bottled them. Especially the little moan that slipped from your lips when I rubbed my thigh between your legs. I could feel the heat coming from that sweet cunt through two layers of material._

Flora looked confused, and more than a little anxious.

"I'm sorry," she breathed. "Is it because I'm a mage?"

"Of course not. I'm  _Rivaini;_ we value those who can channel energy from the Fade."

"Is it because you don't find me… attractive?" she ventured next, her voice small. "Am I a toad?"

This was such a ludicrous statement that Duncan laughed out loud; the coarse bark drawing curious over-the-shoulder glances from the riders ahead.

"Don't find you  _attractive?!"_ he repeated, quiet and incredulous. "Flora, every man at Ostagar would readily welcome you onto his bedroll. You're a beautiful girl, with an  _exquisite_  body."

Duncan realised then that he was caressing her leg, and that he had been unconsciously doing so since the beginning of the conversation. He could feel the warmth of her thigh beneath the slow rotations of his palm.

Flora inhaled unsteadily, feeling something stir against the small of her back. She heard the Warden-Commander let out a soft grunt of either arousal or frustration; or perhaps a mix of the two. He shifted his pelvis forwards on the saddle, just enough to press his half-hard cock against her buttocks.

" _Flora,"_ he whispered thickly in her ear, keeping his dark eyes focused on the backs of the riders as they continued on the trail. "I shouldn't do this. Tell me to stop."

His hand crept up the front of her shirt, the tawny fingers etched with faded lines and old marks of battle.

"No," she breathed back, her heartbeat beginning to quicken. "Don't."

"I  _ought_  to stop," he continued in a slightly strangled voice, deft fingers unfastening the top buttons of her shirt.

"Please, don't."

Very quietly, Duncan's fingers slipped inside Flora's shirt and drew out a small, high breast. The contrast of her milk-white skin against his tawny fingers was stark and beautiful, and she let out a little sigh of dismay as he withdrew his hand.

For several moments, he did not touch her. If anyone riding ahead had glanced over their shoulder, they would have glimpsed their healer perched on the saddle before the Warden-Commander; her face as solemn as ever, and one creamy breast bared.

Then, to Flora's relief, Duncan's hand rose once more to cup her breast in a calloused palm. She could feel his heated breath against the back of her neck, his inhalations ragged and uneven.

"I guessed that this would be pink," he murmured softly in her ear, his thumb caressing a small, stiffening nipple. "The colour reminds me of a berry that grows in the Rivaini desert. It's a very sweet fruit, when  _bitten_."

Flora could not summon a coherent response, her throat dry and her thoughts erratic. It felt as though there was a pulse between her legs, a hot, liquid throb that made her want to beg him for  _more,_ whatever  _more_ was.

"Remember," Duncan said softly, giving the breast a squeeze before flicking the hard nipple with his forefinger. "You can always tell me to  _stop_ , Flora."

Flora shook her head wordlessly; desperate for him to keep going. As he continued to flick her nipple with gentle firmness, she had to press her fist to her mouth to stifle a moan. The muffled whimper was not quite soft enough to escape Duncan's attention; he was unable to stop himself from smiling into the growing dusk.

"Good girl," he murmured under his breath. "You'll bloom for me tonight, my sweet wildflower."

The Warden-Commander then tucked her breast back into her shirt; trying not to laugh at her grumble of discontent as he buttoned the linen back up to her neck. After giving the ripe mound a final squeeze through her shirt, he returned both hands to the reins.

The remainder of the ride passed by chastely; the sun lowering itself in slow increments into the western horizon as a flood of darkness swept over the Korcari Wilds. The marshland seemed even more alien and unfamiliar at night, with tree branches reaching out like spider limbs to brush disconcertingly over one's head. The company had lanterns, but these made little headway against the denseness of a Korcari night.

Then, with the timing of perfect coincidence, the moon emerged from behind the veil of cloud. It bathed the Wilds in silvered light, loaning the desolate marshland a strange almost-beauty. More pertinently to the company, the moonlight also revealed a ring of white stone columns up ahead; partially raised on a crumbling platform overgrown with moss and vegetation.

Cailan let out a shout of relief, the sound tearing through the heavy silence.

" _Finally!_ I was beginning to think you'd led us down the wrong trail."


	4. The Line of Appropriateness

The old Tevinter temple must once have had a roof, and the walls of an inner sanctum. These had long been claimed by the Wilds; all that remained of the ancient structure was its external skeleton. Still, it was elevated and the standing stones provided some shelter from the chilly autumn wind. Mossy boulders – fragments of the fallen ceiling – littered the grassy clearing, and vines curled lazily up the crumbling pillars.

The tiled floor had long since been eroded; small patches of mosaic floor were surrounded by verdant overgrowth.

The company ended up making camp in the midst of the standing stones, with the tents in a ragged circle around the perimeter. The moon had not yet ducked behind its diaphanous veil, and so they had ample light by which to build a campfire and construct their accommodation. The horses were tied to a picket line, and the scout was dispatched to find a source of clean water.

Duncan strode around the perimeter of the temple, weaving around toppled pillars and old, faceless statues. He was listening out for the tell-tale insectoid  _hum_ of Darkspawn presence; the low and beguiling song of his brethren that rose into a crescendo whenever they were near. He was unsurprised when it remained silent – for the past few hours, his mind had been plagued by nothing but his own conflicted thoughts.

_What was I thinking, groping her so openly? All it would have taken was one person riding ahead to look over their shoulder; and they would have seen the Commander of the Grey fondling his recruit's breast like some oversexed adolescent._

_That's the kind of reckless behaviour I engaged in as a youth, before I joined the Wardens. Fereldan girls were curious about me anyway, they liked my Rivaini looks and my juvenile, rakish charm; it didn't take much persuasion before bodices were unlaced and skirts lifted._

_But I'm not a young man any longer. I have a reputation to maintain, and an Order to supervise._

Just then, his thoughts were interrupted by a sound that was at once utterly mundane and completely unexpected. A rumble came from his belly, a low growl of demand that he had not heard in years.

 _Hunger,_ Duncan thought, with a start of surprise.  _I've got an appetite._

Shaking his head to himself, he picked up his pace; continuing his patrol of the perimeter.

The Warden-Commander had just reached the remnants of a crumbling colonnade, when he came across a curious sight. One of Cailan's noble companions – a younger son of some minor bann – was half-crouched behind a toppled pillar. He was so fascinated with whatever lay beyond the pillar, that he had not heard Duncan's initial approach.

Deliberately softening his tread, Duncan crept up behind the young noble; his brow creasing itself into deeply furrowed lines. As he came closer, he realised that the bann's son had his small, pink cock pulled out of his trousers and was stroking it furiously; eyes fixated ahead.

Involuntarily, Duncan's gaze traveled in the same direction as the young noble's desirous stare.

There was a small wellspring gathered in what must have once been the temple's outer sanctum; though the walls had long since crumbled away. Perhaps it had once been a sacred body of liquid used for ritual or purification; now, it was merely a source of clean water.

Flora was standing in the spring, naked as a babe and with her hair in a dark red sheet down her back. Her creamy nudity brought to mind a pagan priestess of Ages past; perhaps conducting some Tevinter fertility rite.

Duncan stared at his young recruit for several seconds longer than he would want to admit. During their prolonged kissing the previous night, he had fondled Flora's body extensively above the nightshirt; now, he could pair sight with touch. Her small breasts were high and tilted upwards, with nipples the same colour as her full, pink lips. Her body was slender and lush; the stomach flat and the buttocks pert.

_How did a girl trapped indoors for years develop such ripe, rounded arsecheeks?_

_Of course: she once mentioned to Alistair that the Circle kitchen was down twelve flights of steps, and that she made this trip multiple times a day._

The oblivious Flora rotated in the thigh-deep spring; cupping a handful of water and letting it run down over her breasts.

As a captivated Duncan caught a glimpse of dark red hair at the juncture of her thighs, he heard a soft moan from the noble voyeur crouched before him. From the vigorous movement of his fist, it was obvious that the bann's son was nearing the apex of his pleasure.

At the very moment that seed began to spill over his shaking fingers, Duncan grabbed the young noble and thrust him bodily back against the pillar. The man's eyes bulged and he mouthed like a fish plucked from the water.

"Spy on my recruit again," Duncan breathed quietly in the man's face; his teeth very white against his olive skin and the darkness. "And I will come into your tent while you are sleeping, and  _bite your cock off."_

The Warden-Commander reached down and gave the noble's shrivelled manhood a hard, contemptuous tweak between his fingers; hoping that the night was also shrouding his own erection.

The bann's son fled off towards the distant glow of the campfire with a squawk of terror. Duncan watched him for several moments, idly contemplating whether to stroke himself to a quick climax while Flora's body was still clear in his mind.

When he turned back around, he felt his heart give an erratic lurch. Flora was standing several yards away, a blanket clutched haphazardly to her breasts and her hair streaming in rivulets down her back.

"Is anything wrong?" she asked curiously, glimpsing a peculiar expression on the Warden-Commander's face.

"One of the nobles was spying on you," he replied, trying to inject some steadiness into his voice. "I sent him on his way."

Flora seemed entirely unconcerned by this, and Duncan realised that she – a former resident of the Circle - was accustomed to being supervised by Templars while bathing.

Duncan took a deep breath, forcing his arms to remain stationary at his side. His fingers were clenched into fists with the effort it took not to touch her. Flora stepped closer to him with her nakedness covered only by a blanket, she peered up shyly at him beneath her eyelashes. Strands of dark red hair lay over her wet breasts like seaweed; droplets of water clung to her collarbone.

"Do you want to do some more kissing before we go back?" she asked hopefully, her face falling in disappointment when he gave a tight shake of the head. "Why not?"

"Because that's not what I want right now," Duncan replied, throatily. "Put your clothes back on, Flora, lest I do something I regret."

"What  _do_  you want?"

She stared at him, not understanding. Duncan, with teeth gritted, decided to lay his urges bare; realising that there was no point in trying to disguise the man that he was.

"If it were up to me, I'd be fucking you in that pool of water by now," he said, bluntly. "Then I'd bend you over that rock and fuck you again. I'd fuck you into the bedroll hard enough that you wouldn't be able to walk straight the next day. I'd oil my cock and fuck you in ways you haven't even  _dreamed_ of."

Flora was staring up at him, her eyes wide with astonishment at such crudeness emerging from her commanding officer's lips. Duncan noticed that her pupils were dilated; a flush creeping up from her breast to her throat.

"I'm a grown man with grown urges, Flora," he finished, bluntly. "And I need to control them around you."

She gave a little, solemn nod, dripping in a puddle on the floor. Duncan softened his tone, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on her face.

"Give me a moment to calm myself," he said, and there was kindness in his tone. "Then you can kiss me, if you still want to."

Flora waited patiently, still clutching the blanket to her breasts. Duncan took several deep breaths, willing his cock to stop straining against its leather confines.

 _Ironic that in recent times, it's taken increasing effort to get to this point,_ he thought, idly.  _And now it won't keep still._

The night before the expedition, in an effort to expend his lust; Duncan had invited both the Chantry priestess and Cailan's buxom archer to his tent. In years past, the sight of two women writhing together had his cock rigid in seconds. However, on that night, they'd both had to suckle at him for nearly twenty minutes before he was hard enough to penetrate them. He had finally managed it by envisioning Flora entwined in the arms of the heavy-breasted archer; her cheeks pink with delight as she discovered the pleasures of female flesh.

Blinking, Duncan brought himself back to the current moment. Flora was still waiting patiently for her kiss; the blanket draped around her shoulders. He reached down to stroke her jaw, and she turned her face expectantly up to his. Her full lips were parted; and there was a eyelash caught on the high plane of her cheekbone.

A second later, their mouths came together with a soft sigh of completion. Flora was more confident this second time, her lips opening to yield her mouth immediately to his tongue. Duncan realised that she was trying out some of the little techniques that he himself had shown her the previous night. Both amused and aroused, he let her nibble softly on his lower lip and suckle on the end of his tongue.

 _There's a lot of passion in this stoic little northerner_.

The kiss intensified, the sounds of wet, frantic lips devouring each other echoing around the pillars. They were both panting and short of breath; only getting a quick chance to gulp in air before the other reclaimed their mouth. His hard cock pulsed against her mound; kept apart by only a blanket and a thin layer of leather.

"Please," Flora breathed when they parted at last, her entire body flushed and quivering. "I want – I want you – to- ."

"Not yet."

When he shook his head, she let out a little wail of frustration.

_"Whyyyy?"_

"Because, my wildflower," her commander replied, forcing himself to calm down. "You're not thinking with your head. You're thinking with  _this."_

He reached down between her legs and cupped her cunt through the thin material of the blanket. He could feel the heat radiating from her core even through the fabric; and as he gave it a gentle squeeze, she let out a choked gasp of wonder.

"Have you touched yourself before, Flora?" Duncan asked quietly, caressing her through the blanket with two gentle fingers.

"You mean, like washing my face?"

"You know what I mean."

Flora shook her head and whispered a denial, cheeks flushing scarlet.

"I tried it a few times at the Circle," she confessed, with a little grimace. "But I didn't know what to do, and I was in the dormitory, and I was afraid people would hear. So I stopped. And at Ostagar I share a tent with others. Alistair sleeps on the bedroll next to me."

"Then that's where we'll start later," Duncan continued, deliberately nudging his fingers against the ridges in the blanket to make her eyes widen. "Every beautiful girl should know how to coax pleasure from her own body. I'll show you how to do it so subtly that not even Alistair will know what you're doing."

She blushed, shooting him a shy look of gratitude.

"Thank you."

The roofless temple framed the heavens with a ring of white stone, the skies clear and unclouded. The stars gleamed overhead in far more beautiful array than they arranged themselves in at Ostagar; their lustre unchallenged by brazier or torchlight. Below, the scent of roasted hare wended its way around the broken pillars and crumbling façades of the temple; the company gathered around the campfire for their evening meal.

Once again, Cailan was full of proud words about his earlier combat with the Darkspawn. He awarded Duncan a minor role in his narrative of events; though heavily emphasising his own skill with blade and shield. One of his noble companions interjected with frequent enthusiastic comments, while the other sat in a slightly traumatised silence. The bann's son – the one who had spied on Flora bathing – was terrified that Duncan might follow through on his earlier threat. The bann's son knew very little of the Rivaini people, save for the fact that they venerated mages and exulted in their rejection of the Chantry. This – to a devout Andrastrian Fereldan – was doubly frightening.

Flora was sitting cross-legged beside the scout, hoping that her wet hair would dry in the heat radiating from the campfire. Every so often, she glanced surreptitiously across at Duncan; repeating his earlier praise silently inside her own head. Being  _appreciated_ was something that she had not experienced for quite some time.

_Well done, young sister._

_Very impressive. I made the right decision taking you from the Circle._

_If it were up to me, I would be fucking you hard against that pillar right now._

Her mentor's crude honesty made Flora blush, even as a hot throb of desire pulsed between her legs. She looked up, hoping that the pinkness of her cheeks could be blamed on the proximity of the fire. Her eyes met Duncan's dark, focused stare as he gazed at her through the flames; and she let out a slightly unsteady breath.

Duncan had been – most uncharacteristically – caught on the horns of a dilemma for the duration of dinner. Even the herbed richness of the roasted rabbit hadn't been enough to distract him from conducting a feverish inner monologue with his own conscience.

_I knew I was never an honourable man; and this inappropriate desire proves it._

_The girl begged me to take her earlier. Why did I turn her down? She would have bent over for me in a heartbeat._

_Because, despite what I told her, I don't want to fuck her. I want to make love to her._

_You old fool._

As though she could read his thoughts, Flora looked up at him. It was too late for Duncan to swivel his gaze away, and so he continued to stare at her, pupils blown wide and black with naked lust. To her credit Flora kept her composure in the prickling heat of his stare; she was from the north, where people looked at each other blunt and straight. Taking advantage of the darkness, the Warden-Commander let his eyes wander over her with a lustful longevity that he would never have countenanced in daylight. He gazed at the swell of her small breasts beneath her shirt, each one creamy and rounded like a goose egg. He had learnt that she wore no under-band on the saddle earlier, his fingers meeting warm flesh after stealing between the buttons of her shirt. Quickly becoming addicted to Flora's muffled little pants; he had spent nearly an hour fondling her naked breast in broad daylight.

 _I've already crossed the line of inappropriateness with my own recruit,_ he thought feverishly to himself, desire and guilt mingling under his tongue.

_But the line itself is still within sight._

_I could instruct her how to pleasure herself, guiding her fingers to the secret spots between her legs. Then she could bring herself to climax without any interference from me._

Duncan allowed himself to gaze at her through the flames a moment longer, noticing the blush that had risen to her cheeks. He wondered what she was thinking about – the kisses from the riverbank, the lewd fondling on the saddle.

_Or she's thinking about coming to my tent tonight. Anticipating it._

The conversation of the others had faded to an inconsequential background hum; and suddenly all he could hear was the little whine she had made when he squeezed her cunt gently through the blankets.

 _I want to finger her pearl of pleasure myself,_ he thought, suddenly.  _I want to part those folds with my own thumb and taste her scent on me._

_I want this beautiful girl's first climax to happen by my hand, with my name on her lips. I'm going to pleasure that virgin cunt of hers until she comes undone for me._

_Fuck the line of appropriateness. I've never put much stock in rules._


	5. In the Warden-Commander's Tent

A few hours later, the company retired to their tents. The watches were divided between the scout, the mage and the bann's son – who, for some reason, seemed nervous about going to sleep. The two Wardens were spared a shift on this occasion, since they had taken a watch on the previous night. Duncan felt guilty for the briefest of moments – they had not exactly been standing guard on the riverbank together – but then quickly dismissed it.

_I would have detected any Darkspawn if they'd been near. Even if I was preoccupied with dry-humping my newest recruit in the midst of the damp grass._

In an effort to give them a little privacy, Duncan had pitched his tent some distance from the others; behind a half-crumbled stone wall that he hoped might muffle some of the girl's moans and whimpers. He did not doubt his ability to pleasure – he had been honing his technique since having his first woman as an adolescent.

_Selima, I think her name was. From one of the little villages on the edge of the Dairsmuid desert. She was heavy with child at the time, and we fucked behind a sand dune while her husband was conducting business fifty yards away._

Duncan was taken aback at the clarity of the memory; one which he had believed lost to the taint. He sat back on the bedroll, glancing around the tent to check that all was readied. His bulky armour had been moved to the side, his bedroll unfolded to its double width in preparation for two bodies. He even had some fresh water ready, in case she grew thirsty. Since it would be foolish to burn candles under canvas, he had tied open the ventilation flaps in the hope of gaining some moonlight.

_I don't need sight to pleasure her, but I'm a selfish man. I want to see that beautiful, solemn face contort as she comes on my hand._

For an hour, the Warden-Commander waited on the bedroll; listening to the distant snores echoing from the other tents. With his newly polished senses, he could hear the soft murmur of conversation between the scout and the mage. He knew when his recruit was near – a consequence of their shared blood – and could thus tell that Flora hadn't left her tent.

_She's not coming. Maybe she's used the privacy of the tent to learn self-pleasure, and doesn't require assistance. Or she's changed her mind about engaging in such activities with her commanding officer._

Duncan tried not to let the bitterness sour his mouth; equally disappointed and frustrated with himself. He leaned back on the bedroll, letting out a long, resigned exhalation.

_She's a beautiful girl, not yet two decades. She'll want a partner closer to her in age. You old fool._

Then, there was a sudden tug at the corner of his mind, a pull that strengthened with each passing second. Duncan caught a glimpse of light reflecting on the canvas wall; he sat upright just as he heard a tentative little knock on the canvas.

"It's me. Flora."

Trying not to smile at her unnecessary introduction, Duncan cleared his throat and injected some steadiness into his tone.

"Come in."

The moment she was inside the tent, she was in his arms; letting her staff roll to one side as she climbed into his lap. Her kiss of greeting was sweet and guileless; she curled her fingers into his tunic as her legs wrapped about his waist. This initial meeting of mouths quickly turned into a series of tender, languid kisses, taking full advantage of this new privacy granted by the canvas walls.

Twice Flora took a breath to try and explain why she had been delayed; twice, he drew her gently and firmly back to their kiss. Both time she melted readily into his arms, letting out a whimper of helpless delight as she yielded to his tongue.

Eventually, Duncan reached for some water to moisten his dry throat; she slithered back onto the bedroll with her cheeks flushed.

"Sorry I was late," Flora whispered, nudging her bare toes against her staff to prompt a slightly brighter gleam from its head. It served well enough as a makeshift lantern, bathing the interior of the tent in soft, mellow light. "They were talking right outside my tent."

She stifled a sudden giggle against the sleeve of her nightshirt, showing him the grass stains on the linen.

"I had to crawl out from the back and I got stuck in the guy ropes. I was hooked there like a fish caught in a net for  _ages."_

Duncan smiled at her, forcing himself to resist the urge to draw her back into his arms for another kiss.

_That sweet, plush mouth of hers is dangerous. It's intoxicating, and I don't know if there's an antidote._

"Flora," he said, with a hint of sternness to his tone. "Tell me what you want to happen now, just so I don't do something we both regret."

She blinked, mouthing silently. It was clear that she had not yet learnt how to translate the liquid pulse between her legs; she knew how she wanted to  _feel,_ but not how to go about it. Duncan changed tactic, needing to clear a sudden thickness from his throat.

"You're happy to let me touch your breasts," he said, recalling her squirming happily on the saddle earlier. "Can I kiss them? Use my tongue?"

A shy nod came in response; Duncan continued, trying to keep his voice steady.

"And do you want me to touch your cunt?"

"Yes, please."

He decided not to ask her permission to use his mouth between her legs. He wanted to save that treat for another occasion – assuming that she wanted to carry on her experimentation after tonight.

"Can I touch back here, too?" Duncan asked finally, reaching around her hip to touch her pert rear through the fabric of her nightgown. Very lightly, he slid a finger downwards between her clothed buttocks to part them, making it clear where  _exactly_  he was referring to. "I promise, it'll feel good."

Her eyes widened, but she gave another little nod.

Duncan took a deep breath, inwardly repeating the permissions that Flora had given him. She sat pink-cheeked on the bedroll before him, fidgeting with nervous excitement.

"I know you want to be fucked," he continued softly, enjoying the quick little inhalation she made in response to his crudeness. "If you enjoy what we do tonight, then tomorrow I'll show you my cock."

Flora dropped her eyes reflexively to the bulge in Duncan's trousers. The outline of his semi-hard shaft rested against his thigh; long and thick.

"Yes," she breathed, fascinated by the rhythmic twitches beneath the fabric. "And – and then?"

Duncan leaned forward, marvelling at the lack of ache in his bones, and pressed a surprisingly gentle kiss to the centre of her forehead.

"Then, I'll make love to you, my sweet desert rose," he said, in a voice low and honey-coated with desire. "And after that I'm going to fuck you so hard that you'll be saddle-sore for a week."

Flora bit at her lower lip, heat blossoming in her cheeks. Duncan reached out and put a finger beneath her chin, tilting her face towards his own.

"But this is the most important thing of all," he said, softly. "If you change your mind at any time while we're doing this, you must tell me  _straight away._ Do you understand?"

Flora nodded, and he raised a stern eyebrow at her.

"I want to hear you say it, Flora."

"I understand."

There was something about the way he pronounced her name – mostly Fereldan, but with a soft remnant of Rivaini in the  _o –_ that sent curls of arousal snaking through Flora's belly.

Duncan heard Flora's breath catch in her throat and smiled inwardly.

_This local girl has never set foot outside her own country; I'd wager she could count the number of non-Fereldans she's met on one hand._

_She's excited at the thought of a Rivaini man; of taking a cock that isn't just attached to some local boy._

"Now lie with me," Duncan said thickly, leaning back on the bedroll. "I've been wanting to taste those sweet lips all evening."

Flora nestled herself against his side, tilting her face expectantly up to his.

Their mouths came together gently at first, his lips barely brushing over hers. Now that a wall of canvas loaned them some manner of privacy, Duncan was able to devote his full attention to his young recruit's eager mouth. Their lips worked in a wet, languid affinity; tongues rubbing tenderly together as they lay entwined on the bedroll.

Originally, Duncan had intended for them to share only a quick, familiarising peck before he situated his tongue to her pert breasts. However, once they settled into the rhythm of the kiss, he found it nearly impossible to interrupt. Flora's sweet, plump lips moved so eagerly against his own; she seemed to enjoy his beard rubbing against her chin; and the little pants she made when he suckled her tongue were addictive.

Even when they parted, facing each other with their heads on the same pillow, Duncan found himself reluctant to move. They were still tangled together from kissing, his hand spread over the small of her back and her thigh draped across his. Rather than clearing his throat and returning upright, the Rivaini found himself instead gazing fixedly into his recruit's rain-coloured eyes. Flora stared back at him, strangely mesmerised, feeling her heart lurch against her ribcage. As though in a dream, she reached up and touched his bearded jaw; tentative and wondering. Without speaking, their lips came together in an especially tender kiss; when they parted, they resumed gazing at each other, unable to look away.

His beautiful young healer smiled shyly at him and without intending to, the Warden-Commander smiled back. Their mouths pressed together once more, almost lovingly _._

 _Dangerous,_ a small voice in the rational part of Duncan's mind whispered.  _You're on dangerous ground._

The Warden-Commander had outlasted many of his peers simply because he had always listened to the soft warnings echoing in the back of his head. On this particular occasion he was tempted to ignore it; but a lifetime's habit ultimately prevailed. He sat up on the bedroll, marvelling at how this movement no longer caused a corresponding ache after a dose from her lips; and cleared his throat.

"Alright, my wildflower," he said, slightly hoarsely. "Let's see what we have, here."

At his gesture, Flora obediently also sat upright on the bedroll. Her hair was half-free of its restraining band, falling in thick, dark red ropes down her back. Her lips were swollen and tender from their kisses, and he could see a pinkness on her chin from the coarse hair of his beard.

Leaning across the tent Duncan reached behind his pack and lifted up a gleaming, newly polished silver shield. Flora blinked at it in surprise as he propped it against the side of the canvas, adjusting the angle until she could see her own confused face.

"I borrowed it from that irritating bann's son," he explained, with a soft snort of amusement, "I'll return it tomorrow, as long as he annoys me no further. So he's probably  _never_  getting it back."

Next, Duncan altered the position of her staff so that the soft, mellow glow radiating from its end fell directly on her body. As a Rivaini native, he handled the magical apparatus with far less trepidation than any Fereldan.

Flora gazed at her illuminated reflection in the shield's polished surface. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes hazy with desire; most implicating of all, her nipples were pressing up against the thin linen of the nightshirt. She could see Duncan's reflection in the shield's wide surface too; his dark eyes fixated on her erect nipples.

"Take off your nightshirt," he instructed, softly. "And if you're wearing smallclothes, I want them off too."

Her heartbeat quickening, Flora pulled the nightshirt over her head; as he had already guessed, she was naked beneath it. As the linen rose in increments, Duncan's eyes devoured each part of her exposed body. His pupils were blown wide and black as he took in the high, creamy breasts, the shapely legs, a plump mound covered with downy reddish hair. As she shifted on the bedroll to place her nightshirt to one side, her thighs parted a fraction and Duncan was rewarded with a brief glimpse of her little, pink cunt.

At that moment, the Warden-Commander wanted nothing more than to free his shaft from its painful confines, moisten it with saliva, and sink deep within those rosy, velvet folds. He rubbed a palm against his swollen shaft, which felt like iron beneath the thin material of his trousers.

_But I told her I wouldn't take out my cock tonight. Ah, this is going to be torturous._

Duncan took a deep and steadying breath, shifting himself until he was seated behind her. Placing his hands on Flora's hips, he lifted her into his lap; angling her so that she could still see her reflected nakedness in the shield. She instinctively positioned herself above his erect length, only separated from her buttocks by the thin leather of his trousers. Curious, she gave a little wriggle; hearing an involuntary groan escape from his throat.

"Flora - "

She pressed back a little harder, feeling the end of his clothed cock slip up between her thighs. The iron-hard head pressed against her folds, and she gave a tentative wriggle. Duncan let out a strangled sound and put his mouth to her ear, lips brushing against the skin.

"Don't tease me, you Fereldan minx. You'll get my cock soon enough."

Flora's cheeks flooded with colour as he finished his words with a soft lick to her neck; his tongue meandering around the curve of her ear. She inhaled unsteadily as he began to kiss his way down the side of her neck, watching his progress in the reflected shield.

Meanwhile, Duncan was once again marvelling at the richness of his perception in Flora's presence. It was as though his senses, dulled for so many years, had awoken from hibernation. He could taste her perspiration beneath his tongue; feel the quick, heady throb of her pulse escalate in response to his attentions. His ears were attuned to every barely audible whimper that emerged from her tender, overused lips.

_What's it going to feel like when I work my cock between her legs for the first time?_

_I'm going to be addicted to that sweet little cunt._

Taking a deep breath, Duncan forced his attentions back to the moment. He reached around Flora and cupped a small breast, admiring the contrast in shade between their creamy and tawny skin. The small mound fit perfectly into his Duncan's calloused palm; the flesh full and firm against his gently squeezing fingers.

_I'd forgotten how the breast of a nineteen year old feels. Like a plump nectarine a day after ripening._

"Your breasts are beautiful," he murmured in his ear, rolling a rigid little nipple between finger and thumb. "Did you enjoy it when I touched them earlier?"

As he waited for her to reply, he circled the rosy tip with the thick, fleshy ball of his thumb, pressing another kiss to her neck,

Flora let out a helpless whimper, blushing as she recalled how he had fondled her bare breasts for nearly an hour, in broad daylight. They had been riding only yards behind the others, in the midst of Darkspawn territory; and yet she had closed her eyes with a dazed delight, lost in the curling strands of pleasure spreading from her core.

"Yes," she whispered, as he brought up his other hand to her second breast. "I enjoyed it a lot."

"I know you did, my wildflower," Duncan murmured, massaging both of her small mounds with experienced fingers. "I'd wager the saddle was damp by the time I was finished. I wish I'd felt that dripping little cunt."

Flora inhaled unsteadily, her eyes widening at his crudeness as a flush blossomed across her creamy breasts. For a moment, the Warden-Commander wondered whether he should attempt to rein in his coarse tongue.

 _No,_ he thought to himself, determinedly.  _She came to me because she wants a grown man, with a grown man's confidence. If she wanted shyness and amateur fumbling; she would be letting Alistair grope her on her bedroll._

Sure enough, Flora's pupils had dilated with lust at his lewd suggestion; she had licked her lips and wriggled on his broad thighs.

"Alright, my beauty," Duncan continued, the words emerging as though thick with honey. "I want to kiss those pretty breasts. Turn around."


	6. A Lesson in Pleasure

Flora swivelled in his lap, inadvertently teasing him with another glimpse of her rosy cunt as she bent her legs around him. Duncan eased her gently into position, adjusting the angle of her body so that he could bow his head to her breasts. Licking his dry lips to moisten them, he lowered his mouth to the ripe, creamy mound of her breast; pressing a soft kiss to the perspiring skin. She let out a little moan, unable to take her eyes from his face as he tasted her with a quick lap of his tongue.

"Do you like that, Flora?"

" _Yes!"_

For the next ten minutes, Duncan lavished her breasts with adoration. He traced their undersides with his tongue, plastered the creamy skin with nonstop kisses; licked abstract patterns in the space between them. Both of her breasts gleamed damp with his saliva; yet, by the end, she was letting out little whimpers of frustration. Duncan had studiously ignored her nipples the entire time, kissing around them in circles and lapping torturously close to the pink flesh with his tongue.

Now they were quivering and desperate for attention as she let out a whimpering, incoherent plea.

"This is my revenge for you trying to work my cock into your cunt, earlier," Duncan murmured throatily, rolling one sweaty nipple between finger and thumb as he recalled her wriggling on his lap. "You naughty girl. All it would have taken was for me to undo three buttons, and I would have been sheathed inside you."

Flora dropped curious eyes to his trousers. Two buttons had been unfastened; the third remained resolutely in place.

"I told you," he continued, a vein of sternness running through his words. "Not tonight. Now, tell me what you'd like me to do to those poor, neglected little nipples."

"Kiss- kiss them?"

"Are you asking, or telling?"

"I – I want you to kiss my nipples."

Duncan did as she asked, pressing tender little kisses to each swollen nipple. They felt plump and ripe beneath his lips, and he was unable to resist each a little nibble.

His dark Rivaini eyes lifted to her face once again, mouth curling into a smile beneath his neatly trimmed beard.

"What now? Tell me nice and clear, in case that bann's son is tugging his cock outside the tent."

She inhaled quickly; and Duncan thought he glimpsed a lightning-brief flash of arousal in her eyes.

 _Interesting,_ he thought, watching her lick her lips. _She doesn't realise it yet, but the thought of being watched turns her on._

Immediately, his mind began to race with possibilities for when they returned to Ostagar.

_I wonder if she'd like Cailan's buxom, dark-haired archer. I can see Flora responding well to tender feminine kisses and strokes. I'd go to the Deep Roads a happy man if I could watch those two making love on my bedroll._

_Perhaps she'd be happy to let Alistair watch her, since my two youngest recruits get on well enough these days. The lad is almost painfully shy when it comes to women; the others mock him endlessly for it._

"Lick them," she whispered, breaking his reverie. "And… and suck on them.  _Please."_

Smiling to himself, Duncan lowered his mouth to her breast and let the top of his tongue drift over her nipple. Flora whimpered, her fingers clenched into her palms and her toes curling tightly. Closing his mouth around the stiffened pink nub, he began to suckle it with languid passion; teasing her other nipple between finger and thumb.

Over the next half-candle, the Warden-Commander did all that his young recruit breathlessly requested. He sucked at each nipple hungrily in turn; kissed, nibbled and bit at the little pink teats until they were swollen to the touch. Changing tactics, Duncan began to administer soft, soothing licks; caressing the sore flesh tenderly with his tongue as he savoured the breathy moans slipping from her throat.

Flora was now limp and boneless in his lap, eyes clouded over with pleasure from her over-stimulated breasts. Duncan drew his head back and gazed at her for a moment, thoughts flooding his mind.

 _This girl isn't only beautiful,_ he mused, taking in her flushed cheeks and parted lips.  _She's brave, too. She places herself in harm's way to shield others. And she's a sweet-natured little creature._

Unable to help himself, Duncan leaned forward and pressed a soft, longing kiss against her lips before drawing away. She smiled wonderingly, eyes still half-closed with lust, and reached up to pull his mouth back down to hers. There was an added richness to their kisses now; a depth of passion underscored by something new and tentative.

 _You old fool,_ Duncan thought wearily to himself even as his tongue worked lovingly against hers.  _She wanted you to fuck her, not fall for her. Stop the caresses and start fingering that cunt, or undo the last button and just put her on your cock. Once she's bouncing up and down in your lap, the last thing you'll be thinking of is her sweetness and bravery._

Ignoring his own advice, he reached up to stroke Flora's flushed, lovely face; gazing into the rainwater-grey eyes as though trying to read the thoughts inscribed there. A dark eyelash rested on her cheek and he leaned forward impulsively to kiss it away. She tilted her head to the side to intercept his lips, and their mouths came together with a soft, mutual sigh.

Duncan pulled away first, clearing his throat and forcing himself to focus.

"Ready for me to rub that virgin cunt?" he asked thickly, reverting to the safer territory of crudeness.

When she nodded, he patted her thigh and instructed for her to turn around; reasoning that at least from this angle, it would be harder to distract himself with kisses. Flora swivelled in his lap, gazing at her flushed face and swollen nipples in the polished sheen of the shield.

"Now, spread your legs," Duncan murmured in her ear, letting his fingers run up and down her thigh. "And if I've done my job well enough, we'll be ready to continue."

Flora parted her legs towards the mirror, trying not to blush too deeply. Duncan stared down, transfixed, at the sweet little cunt that she had been keeping tucked between her thighs for all these weeks. Downy wisps of auburn hair couldn't quite hide the full pinkness of her mound, which lead down to a succulent pair of creamy folds. Her inner labia were the same dusky rose as her nipples, and he could see a round pink button of flesh tucked away demurely where her lips converged. A fine, liquid sheen covered each fold and contour; mesmerised, he patted his fingers between her legs. At the obscenely wet sound that followed, Duncan felt his own seed spilling inside his trousers for a third time since she had entered the tent.

"Beautiful," he breathed thickly, rubbing his slick fingers together. "So wet and ready for me, my desert rose."

Flora let out a helpless whimper, unable to stop watching his hand as it crept downwards. Duncan teased the lobe of her ear with his tongue, simultaneously spreading her folds apart with his thumb and forefinger.

"I assume you've never looked at yourself before," the Warden-Commander murmured, admiring the plumpness of her smooth inner folds. "Which is  _criminal_ , because such a gorgeous little cunt like this should be admired. These lips here - "

" _Lips?"_ she interrupted, eyeing his reflection suspiciously. "Lips are on your face."

He almost laughed, restraining himself at the last minute.

"You've another set of lips down here, and they feel just as good when they're kissed. Now,  _this_  is one of my favourite parts of a woman's body. The  _pearl of pleasure._ Lean back against me, baby, and close your eyes."

Keeping her folds spread, he let the calloused ball of his thumb rub in slow, slick circles around the throbbing little bundle of nerves; counting a slow thirty seconds in his head. By the tenth beat, Flora's eyes were huge with astonishment and arousal; by the twentieth, strange, keening noises were emerging from her throat. By the thirtieth, she was fumbling frantically with the third button of his trousers in an attempt to free his cock.

"Please," she whimpered, barely coherent. "Please, I need it."

Smiling, Duncan gently nudged her fingers away; kissing her ear at her whine of desperation.

"And you'll have it, my sweet juniper," he coaxed, pressing a finger to the swollen button of flesh to feel the frantic pulse of arousal. "You can take my cock every night, if you wish –  _from tomorrow. Tonight,_ I'm going to show you how to pleasure yourself. _"_

Duncan took her limp hand, positioning her fore and middle finger above her slick little bead. Very gently, he pressed his fingers on hers and began to massage them into her pearl.

"Nice and soft," he murmured thickly, feeling her tremble beneath him. "And  _slow_."

"Like this?"

"Yes, love. Good girl."

For several minutes he continued to guide her strokes; both of them watching his deft, careworn fingers moving above her own. The only noise came from their own laboured breathing, and the wet, fleshy manipulation between her legs.

"Now," Duncan said softly, withdrawing his hand. "I want to see you try it alone, Flora."

He leaned forward, focusing on her slender, pale fingers as they paused, then slowly resumed their circling. She was hesitant at first, her touch rigid and uncertain; to calm her, Duncan began to kiss her neck, teasing her ear with his tongue.

Suddenly, Flora let out a breathy moan, her eyes widening as her fingers found a pleasurable rhythm. She began to grow bolder in her movements, her eyes drifting shut as she circled a thumb around her pearl. Soft moans of wonder crept from her throat as she fondled herself successfully for the first time; a dazed smile creeping across her face.

Watching her so absorbed in her self-pleasure, Duncan risked sliding his hand into the front of his trousers. His rigid cock was covered in previously spent semen; he wrapped his fingers around the aching shaft and gave it a few subtle, much-needed tugs.

Seconds later, Duncan realised that Flora had gone quiet; the motion of her fingers stopped. Looking up, he saw her staring in fascination at his wet, purplish cockhead as it protruded above his trousers.

"Is it true that Orlesian girls put it in their  _mouths?"_  she asked, wide-eyed.

"Yes. Not just Orlesian girls," he replied, hastily tucking it away.

Flora thought for a moment, tapping her slick fingers against her thigh.

"Can I try putting it in my mouth tomorrow night?"

" _Maker_ – yes.  _Yes,"_ Duncan croaked, voice stilted as he felt hot seed leaking into his breeches.  _"Absolutely."_

He took a deep breath, composed himself, and returned his gaze to Flora. She stared back at him through dazed, heavy-lidded eyes; her hair dishevelled, mouth bruised from too much kissing, nipples tender from being nibbled. Her pubic hair was in sweaty curls, her cunt saturated and her pearl throbbing.

 _The poor girl has had two hours of foreplay,_ Duncan realised, even his lips gently suckled on the delicate skin of her neck.  _Enough is enough._

"Are you ready to bloom for me, my desert rose?" he said in her ear, and she nodded mutedly. "Alright. Keep stroking yourself, just as you were doing earlier. I'm going to put a finger inside you."

Flora obediently resumed her self-pleasure, feeling her heartbeat surge forward as Duncan slid a hand between her legs.

"Is it going to hurt?" she asked, with some trepidation.

Duncan had not slept with a virgin since he was a youth; yet his mind was so clear in her presence that he was able to summon the memory with ease.

"You're so wet, baby, it'll slide right in," he assured her, pressing a reassuring kiss to her collarbone. "It might feel uncomfortable at first, but I promise you'll get used to it. Keep rubbing that pretty little pearl of yours."

Very softly, Duncan let his calloused forefinger nudge between her slick folds until it was pressing against her entrance. He felt her tremble, and quickly turned his head to capture her mouth with his. As their lips tussled lovingly together, Duncan slowly worked his finger into her slick cunt.

 _Good, there's no barrier,_ he thought, pushing it deeper.  _Always easier when it's been broken naturally._

Flora drew back from the kiss, her eyes widening in astonishment as she gazed down at Duncan's finger as it nestled between her folds. He had penetrated her with the full length, right down to the knuckle; she noticed that beads of sweat had emerged on her commander's forehead. His teeth were gritted, and she could see the tendons standing out in his muscled neck with the effort of restraining himself from reaching for the final button on his trousers.

"You've no idea _how badly_ I want to fuck this tight little cunt right now," he croaked, hoarse and incoherent with lust. "Maker, you're so hot and wet for me."

Flora looked up at him, astonished at such raw, desirous language emerging from her mentor's mouth. Once Duncan had regained some measure of control, he began to slowly slide his finger back and forth inside her quivering slit. She let out a little whimper of startled pleasure, slowly growing used to the sensation of something moving within her.

"Keep playing with yourself," he instructed thickly, curving his finger inside her. "I'm going to feel around until I find your hidden pearl."

A few minutes later, and Flora was almost sobbing with pleasure; her mouth in a round  _O_ of delight and disbelief as she fondled her swollen, fleshy button. She was now sprawled back on the bedroll, Duncan kneeling between her thighs, with her legs bent over his shoulders. The Warden-Commander was sucking lewdly on his recruit's curling toes, two fingers pumping in and out of an obscenely wet, quivering cunt.

Suddenly, Flora began to let out little helpless mewls, her fingers moving with increased urgency.

"Good girl," Duncan urged, letting her foot go and spitting on the forefinger of his free hand. "Come for me, Flora. Almost there."

She was frantically rubbing at herself now; her hips bucking into the thrusting fingers.

"Please – please- "

 _This'll bring you over the edge,_ Duncan thought, smiling inwardly.  _It never fails._

He reached further between her legs with the other hand, parting her pert buttocks. His saliva-dampened forefinger began to massage her little pucker, stroking it in teasing circles.

" _Come for me,"_ he instructed, and Flora clamped her arm over her mouth to muffle the wail of pleasure that tore free from her throat. Her hips bucked of their volition and Duncan felt her cunt spasm repeatedly around his fingers as she came over his hand. He slid the two digits in and out of her; savoring the tremors that continued to ripple through her lower body. Relocating his fingers to her slick little pearl, he managed to draw out her climax even longer; coaxing forth several blissful aftershocks as she moaned, limp and incoherent.

"Just one more, baby," he murmured, rolling the fleshy nub expertly between finger and thumb. "Let's wear out that little cunt."

To Duncan's satisfaction, he soon felt Flora's downy mound spasm beneath his palm; her mouth opening in a dazed whimper.

Once the convulsions of pleasure had finally faded – nearly two minutes after her orgasm had begun – Flora lay bonelessly on the bedroll. Duncan leaned forward to stroke a strand of sweaty hair from her forehead, his battle-worn fingers surprisingly gentle. Ducking his head further, he pressed a soft kiss against her mouth.

She opened bleary eyes and blinked to focus on his face, her face pink and covered with a sheen of sweat. He almost laughed at her expression – she looked so confused – but managed to restrain himself, smiling down at her.

"How do you feel?"

Flora let out a hoarse croak in response, turning her head against the bedroll and curling her fingers, not quite able to string a sentence together. Duncan was unable to stop a surge of pride shooting simultaneously from his heart and from his cock; an odd mixture of lust and affection mingling in his gut.

_This lovely girl is limp and satiated because of me. There's some life in these old bones yet._

Gathering her thoughts, Flora opened her eyes and gazed up at him; letting out an unsteady breath of air. Duncan reached down and slid his thumb gently along the sloping bone of her cheek, feeling the heat rising from her flushed and sweaty skin.

"You looked beautiful when you were coming, my crimson lily," he murmured softly, watching the colour in her cheeks deepen. "I don't think I've ever seen a purer sight."

Flora smiled dazedly and pushed herself to sit upright on the bedroll beside him, utterly unconcerned with her nudity.

"Thank you," she whispered, gazing down in fascination at her own swollen clitoris and pinkened folds. "For showing me how to do it, and for the compliment."

Duncan felt a sudden prickle of guilt, one that dried the back of his throat and caused a sour taste in his mouth.

_You old pervert. There's a dozen things you could have shown her – the difference between fighting a Hurlock at night as opposed to day, the weak points on a Genlock; even the more prosaic skills that she wouldn't have learnt in a Circle, like building a fire._

_Instead, you've instructed her on how to stroke herself to climax, something that she should be learning with a boy her own age. Her and Alistair are equally inexperienced; they should be experimenting with each other in their corner of the Warden tent, groping and sighing beneath the blanket._

Then, Duncan felt a slender pair of arms entwine around his neck, a face nuzzling against the stubble on his throat. Flora had climbed naked into his lap to embrace him, her lips brushing his bearded jaw.

"My whole body feels nice because of you," she breathed earnestly in his ear. "I  _loved_  what you did to me. I'm so glad I came here."

Flora let out a soft, almost involuntary sigh of reminiscent pleasure, recalling how he had sucked on her toes while curling his fingers to stroke a particularly sensitive internal spot. Duncan leaned forward to capture that delicious whimper within his lips, loving it when she moaned into his mouth. For the next few minutes, they exchanged several slow, languid kisses; tongues thrusting gently against one another.

"I should go back to my tent," Flora whispered reluctantly, her pale eyes swivelling around to look for her nightshirt. "Where are my socks? Oh, I didn't bring any."

Duncan knew that he should agree with her suggestion; that he – as Ferelden's Commander of the Grey – should not be caught with a naked, lust-satiated recruit in his quarters. Instead, he guided her back down onto the bedroll, pulling the blankets up to encompass them both.

"Have a rest first," he murmured, drawing her against his chest and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "A quick nap."

_I'm not ready for you to leave my arms just yet, you beautiful creature._

_I feel almost human again, for the first time in years._


	7. Breaking A Fast

Over the next few hours, there was very little rest involved. Entwined like true lovers, they shared endless kisses; from tender pecks to long, impassioned embraces. He stroked her to climax four more times, bringing his fingers to his mouth afterwards to taste her slick sweetness. In the deepest part of the night, she lay facedown on his chest; red-faced but whimpering with incoherent pleasure as he rubbed his finger gently over her wrinkled pucker.

After that lone moment of weakness during her first climax, Duncan managed to restrain himself from unfastening the third button of his trousers. He was determined for tonight to be about her pleasure rather than his own. After she'd begged and pouted, turning pleading eyes on him; he relented, permitting her to stroke him through his trousers.

From that point on, her curious hand did not leave his clothed cock; her fingers exploring the rigid shaft and cupping the warm, heavy sac through the thin fabric. In the grey hour before dawn, he taught her how to stimulate him by sliding her palm up and down the length of his cock through the trousers. They were then able to bring each other to a mutual climax, their mouths coming together in a loving kiss at the apex of their pleasure.

As the sun's crimson fingers began to creep across the canvas, Flora prepared to depart; stifling a yawn. Leaning back on the bedroll, Duncan watched her button the nightshirt back up over her breasts with satiated fingers. She shot him a shy smile over her shoulder, reaching for her staff.

"Thank you, again."

"I'd kiss you goodbye," he murmured in response, watching her cheeks slowly flood with colour. "Except we both know how that would end up."

"How?" she whispered, a note of longing in the word.

"With you naked on my bedroll," Duncan replied, bluntly. "And my fingers in your sweet little cunt."

Flora smiled shyly at him, then impulsively leaned forward. Instead of kissing the Warden-Commander on the mouth, she pressed her lips gently to his cheek.

Duncan watched her nudge the tent flap aside, head swivelling surreptitiously from side to side. The next moment she was gone; he could hear the diminishing sound of her bare feet against the grass.

 

The company rose an hour after dawn, just as soft pink light spilled its way across the ruins of the Tevinter temple. The campfire was built up again and frying pans wedged over the flames; the sound of sizzling bacon echoed around the crumbling columns. Cailan could not sit still in his eagerness to depart for the nest of Darkspawn. He kept fidgeting on the spot and complaining that the food was not cooking quickly enough; pacing back and forth while glowering at the flames.

The others were engaged in various activities about the ruined temple; packing up their tents, tending to the flames or checking the details of the day's route. Duncan was methodically strapping on his armour piece by piece, his mind meandering between a number of topics.

"Cailan," the Warden-Commander said at last, growing tired of the king's incessant restlessness. "You ought to save your energy for later. I imagine that there's going to be quite a bit of fighting once we reach the Darkspawn nest."

"I've got a surplus of energy," retorted Cailan, springing to his feet once again. His gilded armour caught the rising sun, flashing brilliantly against the backdrop of dull stone. "I slept too long and now all the channels of my body are  _buzzing!"_

"Then, why not practice your drill?" the Rivaini suggested, barely managing to keep the irritation from his voice. "Warm up the muscles for later."

The king nodded, swivelling his eyes around the faces of those seated about the campfire.

"Excellent idea! Come on, Dora."

Flora reached for her bowl of porridge, clambering to her feet. As she followed him across the mossy stone, she wondered idly if Cailan would ever be able to remember her correct name.

Cailan came to a halt in the centre of a pale stone dais that must have once housed the temple's altar or inner sanctum. He drew his sword, eyeing Flora impatiently as she came to a halt behind him.

"You brought your  _breakfast?"_

She nodded, hoping very much that he was not going to insist that she discard it.

Over by the campfire, Duncan shifted slightly against the hard stone, marvelling at how he was now able to sit on such an uncompromising surface without discomfort. After several hours of attention from the girl's gifted mouth; many of the dull aches that accompanied five decades of hard living had been temporarily soothed.

The scout was showing him the map, explaining the day's planned route. Duncan was half listening, keeping one eye on the unfolded parchment and the other on his recruit as she waited patiently before Cailan.

The king gave a roar that would have sounded impressive within a castle courtyard, but was quickly muffled in the damp air of the Korcari Wilds. Lifting his sword, he lunged forwards and swung the blade in both hands; sweeping it in a scything motion towards Flora.

The silver-gold shield sprung up around Flora's body in a split-second. As the sword hit it, there came a metallic  _clang_ that echoed about the crumbling temple walls _._ Cailan's blade glanced off ineffectually to one side; the king letting out a soft grunt.

"That was just a warm-up!" he called out, breathlessly. "Prepare for the  _real_  onslaught!"

Duncan ignored the scout's rambling monologue, focusing on his young healer as she stood several yards before the king. Flora appeared an incongruous figure in comparison to Cailan's gilded form – she was clad in only her usual leather garb and a Warden tabard; barefoot and with her hair hanging loose. The intangible shield pulsed around her like something  _alive_ , withstanding every increasingly frenzied blow from the king's blade. She was not channeling it through her staff – which was currently lying on the cracked tiles – nor was she channeling it through her fingers. Instead, it had simply  _materialised_  around her body like a shimmering, impenetrable cloak.

Flora took a surreptitious spoonful of porridge, holding the bowl in one hand and the tin utensil in the other. The king looked mildly irritated, lowering his sword and eyeballing her.

"I don't understand why you're so small in frame," he said, a thin vein of resentment running through the words. "You never stop  _eating."_

Flora wondered if this was an order – technically, he had not instructed her to  _stop._ She took another mouthful of porridge, tasting the cinnamon on the back of her tongue before placing the bowl on the ground by her feet.

"Sorry," she mumbled, swallowing.

"Let the girl finish her breakfast, Cailan," Duncan called across the ruins as he leaned against a pillar and watched them. "She needs to keep her energy up for today."

"I just want to make a  _dent_ in it," the king complained, hefting his sword upwards and letting it collide against Flora's shield once again. "Just a single, small dent."

Flora let out an inward sigh and shifted from foot to foot, tilting her head upwards. The temple had no roof – the domed stone ceiling had long since broken apart - and the sky above was the thin, greyish shade of watery gruel.

"Duncan," Cailan called, lowering his sword with petulance writ across his features. " _Duncan_ , come here. You're the only one here comparable to my strength- " at this, Duncan gave a tiny, imperceptible snort, " – and I want to see if you can make any difference."

"I don't see the point in blunting my blades," Duncan replied, folding the map back into quarters and replacing it in his pack. "I'd rather save them for an enemy."

"Just a  _few swings,"_ Cailan entreated, and Duncan sighed inwardly, realising that the king's nagging would not abate until he had acquiesced.

He rose to his feet - inwardly wondering at the lack of corresponding creak from his bones – and drew his blades from their sheath at his back.

Cailan stepped to one side with a little  _huff_ as the Warden-Commander made his way over the cracked stone dais; coming to a halt before his recruit. Flora blinked, the shield disintegrating into a shower of gleaming particles that faded before they reached her feet.

Duncan let his dark Rivaini stare settle on her as she gazed up at him.

If Flora was remembering what they had done in his tent the previous night, there was no sign of it in her expression. The natural, solemn beauty of her features formed a mask of such cool nonchalance that Duncan couldn't help but summon contrasting memories.

 _You came for me five times last night,_  he thought, rubbing a thumb across the leather wrapped hilt of his blade.  _The last time, it was so intense that tears came to your eyes, your teeth gritted with the effort of keeping quiet. That sulky mouth opened in helpless whimpers of pleasure; you had moaned yourself hoarse by dawn._

_My cock is going to look so beautiful between those full, pouting lips._

"Ready?" he asked her in measured tones, even as his dark eyes branded themselves into her own.

She nodded, the silver gold shield billowing up about her like a gossamer veil; deceptively intangible. The Warden-Commander lifted his blades, surprised at the vitality that ran through his veins like a shot of Antivan fire-whiskey.

_I don't need to restrain myself. She's a clever and capable girl._

Without warning he lunged like some muscled cat towards her, moving with surprising agility considering his age and bulky frame. The silver blades came down at counter-angles, striking the shield one after the other with dual metallic peals. The reverberation rang through the sword and echoed through their wielder's bones; for a moment, Duncan thought that he had missed and struck the temple column instead. One of the swords fell from his hand, the hilt jolted loose by the echo of his blow.

"Glad to see it's not just me," Cailan commented, slightly sulky. "Can anything get through that thing?"

Flora thought for a moment, the diaphanous veil melting into the ether as she shifted from foot to foot. Her face took on a faint, melancholy cast; her gaze unfocused as she delved into her memory.

"I don't know," she replied, wistfully. "Back in Herring – where I'm from – we used to get sea giants wandering down the beach every few months. They didn't bother us most of the time, but sometimes they'd try and take a boat. I don't know  _why_ they would want a boat. Anyway, I know that my shield doesn't break when they hit it."

Flora trailed off, watching Cailan disappear back towards the campfire. A pan of frying bacon had just began to sizzle; the sound and smell attracting the other members of the company like bees to honeysuckle.

 _My young healer is usually so taciturn,_ Duncan thought to himself, watching a brief flash of sadness flicker across Flora's face as she realised that Cailan had no interest in her home village.  _I don't think I've ever heard her speak so much at a time._

"Herring's up on the north coast," he observed, sheathing both blades across his broad back. "And it's obvious from your voice that you've the Waking Sea in your veins. Don't the locals call it the  _Storm_  Coast?"

Flora blinked and then nodded, unable to stop the corners of her mouth turning upwards.

"Mm!" she replied, the natural solemnity of her face lifting to reveal a rare animation of expression. "We have storms even in the summer. The storms in the hot months are often worse, actually."

 _That's less than a day's ride from Highever,_ Duncan thought to himself, glancing over his shoulder towards the campfire. The other members of the company were gathered around the flames, staring hungrily at the pan.

_What's the connection between this girl and Ferelden's second most powerful dynasty?_

_It could be that twenty years ago the teyrna found the teyrn balls-deep in some lusty maid. Eleanor Cousland would never tolerate proof of her husband mis-planting his noble seed – the maid and her sprouting belly might have been sent to a discrete village within the teyrnir._

Flora's discarded staff caught his eye, the wooden length lying innocuously on the broken tiles.

 _A mage child,_ he thought, suddenly.  _These Fereldans are so fiercely protective of their great family names; and so deeply mistrustful of magic. If a teyrn's daughter was born a mage, what kind of scandal would it have caused?_

_Perhaps a scandal that could be hastily covered over with the removal of the child in question. A removal to a tiny fishing village within Bryce Cousland's teyrnir; close enough for them to keep an eye on her, far enough that few would make a connection._

Flora was still caught up in her own plaintive reminiscence. Her body was situated at some ruined Tevinter temple within Ferelden's southernmost region, while her mind wandered the rocky headlands and eroded cliffs of the northern coast.

Glancing once more at their preoccupied companions, Duncan reached forward to grip Flora's elbow; light-handed that she could shake him off if she wished.

She blinked at him but made no move to protest, letting him guide her behind one of the thick columns that ringed the stone dais. The pillar afforded some semblance of privacy, obscuring the Warden-Commander and his recruit from the campfire.

Once they had gained this façade of separation, Duncan manoeuvred Flora up against the column, just firm enough to press that pert, rounded rump into the white stone. She gazed up at him with a wide-eyed, serene curiosity; a question in her pale grey stare.

Duncan had several questions on the tip of his tongue, each jostling for prominence.

_Did you wake up with your pearl of pleasure sore from overstimulation?_

_Did you practice stroking yourself in your tent before dressing this morning? Soon, you won't need my help to climax._

_Let me fondle those sweet little breasts while the others are preoccupied with breakfast._

"Your magic is beautiful, Flora," he said instead, quiet and purposeful. "You're a very talented girl."

She inhaled unsteadily, the surprise writ raw across her grave, lovely face.

 _This is foolish,_ Duncan thought furiously to himself as he stepped closer.  _The others are sitting thirty yards away. It's broad daylight, so you can't blame your desire on the permissive aphrodisiac of darkness._

_What's the purpose of this? It can't go anywhere._

Ignoring his chastising conscience, Duncan spread his hands over Flora's waist, his thumbs sliding forwards to caress her hips. He did not want to look down at her face; certain that it would be wreathed in confusion.

To his surprise, her arms came up around his neck, broaching the foot of difference in their height. Duncan let his gaze settle on her face – with some uncharacteristic trepidation – and felt a small twinge of shock at the pink flush that had spread over Flora's cheeks. He stared at her for a moment, stare sharpening like a Mabari hound spotting a rabbit in a field.

_Except this rabbit can summon a barrier stronger than the legendary wall of Minrathous; so it's not a suitable comparison._

Duncan bowed his head to kiss her and she parted her lips readily, letting out a small sigh of contentment as their mouths came together. Their lips pressed close several times in a series of lingering kisses; each one longer and richer than its predecessor. A little moan of wonder escaped Flora's throat, not dissimilar to the one she had made when Duncan had first brushed an experienced thumb over her swollen pearl.

A dozen yards away, the other members of the company were still gathered around the campfire, sharing out the bacon while discussing the Darkspawn nest. They had not yet noticed the conspicuous absence of their Wardens; fortunately, the sizzling of the cast iron pan drowned out the distinctive sound of slow, intimate kisses from behind a nearby pillar. Flora's occasional soft whimpers were carried safely in the opposite direction by an obliging wind.

As Duncan reluctantly parted from his young recruit, she let out a small whine of dismay; lifting lust-clouded eyes to his face. Her nipples stood out hard against the fabric of her shirt; she wore no breast-band beneath the thin linen.

"Please," she whispered, not even certain what she was begging him for. "Please."

For a moment – guided by his aching, neglected shaft - Duncan seriously considered fucking her there and then up against the pillar.

_I could turn her around and kick her legs apart, take her quickly from behind. I'd spill my seed on the third thrust like an adolescent; we'd be back at the campfire in minutes._

His fingers lingered on his belt buckle, sorely tempted.

_She wants it; the desperate little creature. I wonder how wet she is between those shapely thighs._

_Why am I hesitating? This beautiful, passionate girl is offering herself to me._

_Because I want to make love to her, slow and deeply; my mouth worshipping every inch of that creamy body. I want her in my arms all night; seven hours of uninterrupted pleasure where we can kiss, fondle and fuck to our hearts' content._

_I want to see the look on her face when she takes a cock for the first time. And I want my face to be branded into her memory as the first man she spread those lovely legs for. I want to set the standard that all men in her future have to live up to._

When Duncan drew away, the disappointment on Flora's face would have been almost comedic, if it hadn't been so pitiful.

"We both need to be patient, my desert rose," he murmured, adjusting himself within his leathers. "And this is not the time or the place."

She made a hoarse sound of despair and Duncan smiled at her, dropping his voice to ensure that it wasn't audible by the others.

"Let me taste you," he said, softly. "I want to sample what I'll be enjoying later."

The blush deepened across Flora's face but she did as she was asked, sliding her hand down the front of her trousers. Biting her lip as she brushed against her pulsing pearl, she dipped her finger into her own slick arousal. Shy and quivering with lust, she showed her mentor her wet finger.

Duncan bowed his head and took her finger in his mouth, sucking off the sweet evidence of her arousal. As he tasted her on his tongue for the first time, he let out a hoarse, involuntary sound of desire. He made her put her fingers twice more between her legs for him to savour; finally, he worked his own hand down the front of her breeches and gathered her juices on three callused fingers.

"You taste so delicious," he breathed thickly in Flora's ear as she sampled her own sweetness from his fingers. "I'm not going to come up for  _air_  when I get my face between those thighs."

_Maker, how much longer can I wait? I have to have her soon._


	8. Getting Lost in the Wilds

After the fire had been extinguished, tents dismantled and belongings packed up; the company set out once again into the swamp-ridden Wilds. Although none of them would admit it, the majority were reluctant to leave the Tevinter temple behind. Despite the fact that it was little more than a crumbled ruin, it represented civilisation – albeit one long-crumbled. In stark contrast, the Korcari Wilds defied all attempts to tame them. Trails were overgrown with weeds, most of the bridges they came across were on the point of collapse, and there were no signs of sentient life save for the occasional stone hut. None of these appeared to be occupied; many of them were in the process of being reclaimed by the Wilds themselves.

They rode south-west, keeping the sun at their backs as they followed a path just about wide enough for two horses abreast. Long brambles crept up surreptitiously from either side to snag stirrup-straps and ankles; while trailing vines from stooping branches overhead. The sky overhead was an unappealing shade of overstewed tea; a pallid and sullen brown that threatened downpours with each passing cloud.

The scout rode first, pointedly wearing both breastplate and helmet after the misadventures of the past two days. Next came Cailan, whose eager anticipation at their proximity to the Darkspawn nest was tempered by the weather and the  _longevity_ of the journey. Although he had been shown the nest's location repeatedly on the map before leaving Ostagar; Cailan had been less interested in the logistics and more concerned with which greatsword to bring.

He was chattering at his noble companions, who were trying not to let their sulky expressions show on their weary faces. At Ostagar, their tents had been far larger, they had slept on camp-beds and enjoyed the services of their servants. To Cailan's credit, he had not yet complained about the hardness of the ground or the laboriousness of packing one's own bedroll. He was too excited about the prospect of attacking the Darkspawn nest; of following in Maric's footsteps and cementing his legacy as a  _warrior-king._

The mage, who had been reluctantly impressed by the strength of Flora's shield over the past few days, had pulled back his horse to ride alongside Flora and Duncan. He barely remembered Flora from the Circle - in Kinloch Hold, good looks did not make one memorable, it was  _magical ability_ that one built their reputation on. The illiterate Flora, severely limited in the latter, had spent much of her four years at the Circle completing chores with the Tranquil. She had not particularly minded this, since they did not patronise her for her lack of ability.

"So, you're a  _spirit healer?"_ the mage asked, glancing sideways to where Flora was perched on the saddle before Duncan. "Aren't they quite rare?"

Flora gave a little nondescript grunt; it had been Duncan who had first named her as such, drawing from his experiences in Rivain.

"But you can't cast from  _any_ other school  _at all_?" the mage continued, in slight disbelief. "Not even to ignite a candle?"

Duncan's fingers clenched a fraction tighter around the reins as he stared rigidly forward to the overgrown trail ahead. He could feel Flora slumping dolefully in the saddle before him – this was clearly a question that she'd heard many times in the Circle.

"No," he heard her reply, short and honest. "I can't do anything but heal and summon a shield. I've never been able to do anything else."

The mage raised his eyebrows with an incredulous snort. To Duncan's relief – he was beginning to find the man increasingly irritating – one of the young nobles called the mage up to the front of the party for some obscure purpose.

Once more bringing up the rear of the party, Duncan gripped the reins and gave a cursory glance about their surroundings. The Korcari Wilds rolled out for miles of fetid swampland as far as the eye could see, bleak and miserable. Still, the Warden-Commander could not feel the tell-tale  _thrumming_  of the Darkspawn's presence in his blood; so he allowed himself some measure of distraction.

"Tell me about the spirits that aid you, Flora," he murmured, directing the words into her ear. "I find myself fascinated."

He could feel her brighten almost immediately, sitting up in the saddle and twisting her head to peer at him.

"You're interested?"

"I'm Rivaini," Duncan reminded her, gently. "Of  _course_ I'm interested."

As they rode deeper into the dreary marshland of the Wilds, Flora spoke with initial hesitancy – but then increasing confidence – on her spirits. Duncan listened in genuine fascination as she told him of the two spirits she had known since she was a little girl. Back then, she had known them as  _Silver Knight_ and  _Golden Lady._ Now, she knew them for their true names: Valour and Compassion.

In return, Duncan told her about a village elder he had known from his homeland; a spirit healer revered for miles across the Rivaini desert. Her name had been Elwena and her skill at healing was matched by none. He had never seen her cast any other type of spell – either she could not, or did not care to – and she was no less valued for it _._

"Oh," breathed Flora, fascinated. "Thank you for telling me. It's nice to know I'm not the only  _limited_ mage in Thedas."

"Not  _'limited',"_ Duncan countered, bringing up a hand to brush the stray hairs away from her neck. "Gifted. Talented. I'd even say  _Maker-Blessed."_

He pressed his lips to the skin, keeping them there long enough to feel her pulse quicken.

"Maker-blessed?" she whispered, her voice quiet and wondering.

"Aye," he confirmed, leaning forward to brush his lips against the curve of her ear.

_Just as the Maker blessed you with such a ripe and succulent body. I don't think I've ever seen such a perfect little pair of breasts._

The memory of Flora gasping and naked on his lap surged to the forefront of Duncan's mind; her blushing nipples hard between his fingers as he'd caressed them.

Without quite meaning to, he shifted slightly on the saddle to lessen the pressure on his hard, leather-bound cock. As he surreptitiously adjusted the position of the iron-hard shaft; it ended up brushing Flora's rear as she sat before him on the saddle.

Without hesitation, she pressed herself back against the bulge in his breeches; positioning herself so the iron-hard shaft was nestled between her clothed buttocks. Duncan had to bite back a groan as she wriggled back against him with a curious squirm.

"You little minx," he breathed, bringing up a callused palm to cup her clothed breast. "Didn't you provoke me enough last night?"

Flora let out a small noise of acquiescence; rubbing herself shamelessly on him. Duncan breathed out a helpless Rivaini curse, envisioning her bent over before his oiled cock; pert little buttocks offered in invitation.

_Patience. You need to get her accustomed to taking you in the usual manner first; before introducing her to that particular pleasure._

He lifted his eyes to the party as they rode ahead, their gazes fixed on the trail and the map. The Korcari Wilds were spread flat around them, silent and still as a mausoleum.

_I'll just have a quick feel now. She's been pressing those buttocks against my cock all morning._

_Is it deliberate? I don't usually bed nineteen year olds; perhaps even the virgins are provocative in their own immature way._

Letting his lips brush gently over Flora's neck once again, Duncan unfastened the front of her shirt one button at a time. She made a soft noise under her breath – one that he had come to recognise as a plea for a kiss. Duncan finished unbuttoning her shirt and parted the linen; both startled and excited by his own daring.

_If any of the riders turn around, they're going to see the Warden-Commander openly fondling the bare breasts of his recruit._

_Fuck it. There's a Blight, these are strange times._

As their horse patiently followed in the wake of the others, Duncan played openly with his young healer's breasts; stroking her nipples, weighing each pert mound with cupped palms, giving the creamy flesh firm taps to make it quiver.

"Do you like this, my blossoming desert rose?" he murmured in her ear, letting his saliva-dampened thumb circle over a stiff, rosy-pink nipple. "Is that little cunt getting hot and slick for me between those lovely, milky thighs? I want it wet enough that my cock will slide right in later. You beautiful,  _beautiful_  girl."

The juxtaposition of crude words with flowery compliments both confused and aroused Flora. Until this expedition into the Wilds, Duncan had never said anything to her that could be considered less than meticulously polite. Now, a thick and pulsing lewd streak had manifested within her Warden-Commander, and each explicit comment sent a strange jolt straight between her legs.

 

They rode further south, passing another ruined Tevinter temple and several broken bridges. For an hour, the trail had been lost – submerged beneath brackish water and swampy mud – and they had wandered in hopeless circles in an effort to find it. The problem with the Wilds was that they were vast and relatively featureless; acre upon acre of bog, crooked trees and swampy pond in various shades of beige and ochre. Even the sun was no help in determining direction, since the sky was entirely covered in a hazy yellow miasma. The terrain was so uneven that it was difficult to see beyond fifty yards – they were constantly labouring through ridges and ditches.

Duncan – with reluctance – had fastened up Flora's shirt and dismounted along with the rest of the party. After several inadvertently rejuvenative kisses from his spirit healer, he had recalled visiting this particular Darkspawn nest a decade prior – it was a notorious cave that the Wardens cleared out every few years. Now that the holes in his taint-eroded mind had been temporarily mended; he began to search the crevasses and curlicues of his memory for any clues as to direction.

The horses huddled in a miserable cluster beneath a copse of trees, aware that they were in dangerous, alien territory. The rest of the company decided to pause for some lunch, sitting in a dejected circle on the muddy grass and sharing out portions of salted meat, cheese and bread. Cailan had been complaining nonstop about this unforeseen delay to his heroic expedition. The scout bore the brunt of the king's petulant discontent, but everybody soon grew tired of hearing Cailan whine.

 _If he was not king, I would have boxed his ears by now,_ Duncan thought grimly to himself.  _How can a man be so different to his father?_

_If Maric were here, he wouldn't be setting off on missions of personal glory into the Wilds. He would have been drilling the troops at Ostagar, or venturing up to empty the Circles of mages, or petitioning the dwarves for assistance._

_I wish that he were here, despite the fact that it would inadvertently expose young Alistair's heritage. Cailan resembles Rowan more in feature, but Alistair is the spit of his father. Maric was not arrogant enough to assume that the Royal Army alone could face the threat of a potential Blight. He knew well enough how dangerous the Darkspawn were in battle._

_Although if he were here,_ the Warden-Commander thought, wryly.  _I might have had some competition for my young recruit's affections. Theirins have always liked redheads, and Maric never minded taking a mage for a lover._

"We're not going to give up and go back," Cailan declared defiantly, interrupting Duncan's thoughts. "I can't return to Ostagar without the tale of my purge of the Darkspawn nest."

Duncan, who often overstepped the bounds of politeness with the king through sheer lack of caring, shot the man a pointed look across the damp grass.

"Cailan, it sounds as though you're more concerned with what the bards will sing about you, than the actual clearing of the nest," he commented, wryly. "I assume that's not the case?"

Cailan went slightly pink about the ears, clearing his throat.

"Of course not," he retorted, defiantly. "Killing the Darkspawn is obviously the most important part."

 _You heard Fergus Cousland talking about fighting off that Darkspawn ambush the other week,_ Duncan thought to himself, taking a bite of buttered bread. _You want to collect heroic stories like a Rivaini woman collects her wealth around her neck._

Tiring of the king's rhetoric, Duncan let his eyes wander around the company until they came to rest on his spirit healer. She was kneeling beside the scout, their heads bent together over the map.

As he watched, Flora rose to her feet and swivelled around, peering up at the sparse canopy overhead.

The next moment, their young healer was striding towards one slender tree; without hesitation, she planted a foot into a V-shape in the trunk and boosted herself upwards. With a fluidity of movement that suggested familiarity, Flora began to clamber from limb to limb; ascending the tree with little grunts of effort.

"Don't fall," Duncan said in mild alarm, his dark eyes following her progress into the canopy.

"I won't fall! I used to climb onto the Circle roof all the time."

Her voice drifted down from the branches overhead, accompanied by the rustling of autumnal leaves.

 _Ah, of course,_ Duncan thought to himself, having read through Flora's Kinloch Hold records on the way to Ostagar.  _The only evidence of her being disciplined is from when she was caught sneaking up to the roof or down to the kitchens._

The rest of the company squinted upwards, watching their healer as she came to a halt in a crook of the trunk near the tree's apex thirty feet overhead.

Gripping onto a branch, Flora swivelled around as best she could and swept her pale gaze across their surroundings. The swampland spread out like a rumpled, muddled blanket in all directions, broken up by the occasional Tevinter ruin or crumbling stone structure. From this elevated position she could see for miles across the marshy Wilds; even as far as the purplish Southron hills and the dark silhouette of Ostagar in the distance.

"Can you see it?" the scout shouted hopefully from the damp grass below.

"No- no –  _yes_ ," replied Flora, almost falling off the branch in sudden excitement as she set eyes on a leaning Tevinter pillar, rising up like a lopsided bone from the marshy ground. "Oh, it's not far! It's over  _there,_ just over a stream and behind a ridge."

She pointed, and – down on the ground - scout made a corresponding mark on his map.

After one final look around at the Wilds, Flora began to clamber her way back down the trunk; her toes stretching out to feel for lower branches.

"Don't fall, Flora."

Duncan's stern words filtered up from below; it was more a command than a warning.

"I won't fall," Flora replied, then promptly missed her footing; grazing the length of her forearm as she clutched a branch to gain traction. "Agh, ouch. Oww."

" _Go slowly!"_

The note of raw concern in her commander's voice made Flora take notice; it was unusual for him to sound less than in compete control at all times. Obediently, she slowed her pace and took more care with her descent.

By the time that she reached the ground, the company were packing up their lunch; eager to make a start now that the direction had been determined.

Duncan stood at the foot of the tree with carefully arranged neutrality across his features; dark eyes focused on his healer as she slithered gracelessly to the ground before him. There were dried leaves caught in the tangled red skeins of her hair; and he had to mentally arrest himself from reaching out to remove them.

Flora gazed solemnly up at him, slightly pink in the face from her exertions. Rolling up her tattered and grubby sleeve to her elbow, she brought her grazed forearm to her mouth; exhaling a lungful of gilded miasma across the bloodied flesh. Within seconds the tiny abrasions had smoothed themselves over into new flesh, the surface of the skin pale and unblemished.

With a quick glance behind – the rest of the company were preoccupied with packing up their horses – Duncan reached up and brushed his thumb over his recruit's sulky mouth, wiping away a smear of blood from her plump lower lip.

 _That face is deceptively solemn,_ he thought to himself, lowering his hand with some reluctance as she smiled shyly up at him.  _She's not a dour creature by any means, despite that melancholy beauty._

"I used to climb onto the Circle tower roof," Flora explained, unnecessarily. "To try and see the sea. I couldn't see it though, it was too far."

Duncan had known the action but not the motivation behind it. He watched Flora roll her sleeve back down and wander back towards her half-eaten sandwich, humming tunelessly to herself.

" _Hurry up!"_ bellowed Cailan, already on horseback and pacing impatiently back and forth through the swampy grass. "Let us be off!"


	9. Inappropriate Use of A Saddle

Now that the correct direction had been ascertained, the scout was able to locate the trail once again. The track wended its way south, through a muddy stream and past a broken pillar; carving a gentle path through the swampy terrain. Cailan had urged his horse ahead, chattering excitedly to the other nobles – and anybody else unfortunate enough to come within a three metre radius.

Duncan had informed the company that he would – once again – be bringing up the rear of the party. With his face maintaining the usual implacable neutrality, he claimed to have felt a faint flicker of Darkspawn presence at their backs. As planned, this had prompted the others in the company to hastily spur their horses onwards; leaving a gap of several yards between their horses and his own bay mare.

 _I believe I did feel something a few minutes ago,_ Duncan tried to convince himself as he brushed his lips against the back of Flora's neck.

 _Bullshit,_ his conscience retorted.  _You just want another opportunity to inappropriately touch your newest recruit._

Duncan ignored his conscience, instead focusing on the slightly unsteady rise and fall of Flora's chest as she sat on the saddle before him. She had begun to fidget with the very first press of his mouth; by the time that his tongue was edging its way around the shell of her ear, she was  _squirming_ against the hard leather.

"Unbutton your breeches for me," Duncan instructed quietly, following his words with a soft kiss to the sensitive spot beneath Flora's ear. "Am I going to find an excited little cunt when I put my fingers between your legs?"

Flora nodded breathlessly, fumbling clumsily at the buttons even as her cheeks flared a deep pink. As Duncan darted the tip of his tongue delicately into her ear, he could feel her tremble against his chest; small breasts quivering beneath the thin linen of her shirt. The three buttons were undone in seconds; revealing a glimpse of innocuous white smallclothes.

Duncan glanced forward to make sure that the rest of the company was still preoccupied with either the map or their surroundings. After establishing their continued distraction, he reached around Flora's waist and slid a slow, gentle hand down the front of her unbuttoned trousers.

Wanting to relish each moment of uninterrupted fondling, Duncan spent some time squeezing Flora's plump pubic mound; stroking his thumb in slow circles against the downy auburn hairs. When he finally slid his fingers between her thighs, there came a  _click_ of moisture so loud that Duncan glanced up to ensure that the rider in front had not heard.

"Good girl," he murmured in her ear, letting his fingers explore her saturated folds. "So wet for me already. I'd wager my cock could sheathe in a single thrust."

Flora let out a soft moan and let her pert buttocks grind against his groin in a deliberate invitation. For a moment, Duncan seriously considered the logistics of fucking her on the saddle; before reluctantly dismissing the idea.

_If she starts bouncing too vigorously on my cock, we'll both end up in the swamp._

Instead, he began to stoke her swollen pearl with his thumb; teasing the slick little button until it stood stiff beneath his ministrations. Flora leaned back against his chest, her eyes half-closed and her lips parted in silent pleasure.

 

For the next hour, the Warden-Commander fondled his recruit with a variety of experimental touches. He had spread her folds wide with his fingers and fluttered his thumb over her pearl; he had tenderly massaged her plump folds; he had caressed her whole mound with his palm. She had climaxed for him twice already, shuddering against his chest with the slightest of squeaks emerging from her throat. Fortunately, a light drizzle had begun to fall over the Wilds; the sound of rain disguised both her whimpering and the slickness between her legs.

Proud of himself for not getting distracted by his own erect cock, Duncan was determined to make Flora come for him a third time. Two of his fingers moved surreptitiously within her tight little slit as she whined softly against him; he could feel her wriggling on the saddle as she neared the apex of her pleasure.

"Come on, my desert rose," he murmured in her ear, quickening the pace of his thrusting fingers. "Come for me. Come on my hand."

Flora squirmed back against him with her mouth in an  _O_ of pleasure; her cheeks flushed and her eyes closed. The sounds that emerged from her throat seemed to caress Duncan's rigid shaft like velvety fingers; idly, he wondered what she would sound like climaxing with him sucked between her lips.

He felt her contract erratically around his fingers, hips bucking forward as though already moving frantically on his cock. A hoarse moan of pleasure escaped her throat; the unmistakable sound of a young woman mid-orgasm that would inevitably have drawn the attentions of the company if not for the mage inhaling some pollen that made him sneeze several times in a row. Unfortunately, such convulsions of pleasure also caused Flora to slide from the saddle; she had a soft landing in a clump of mulberry bushes.  

In the middle of the bush, Flora hoisted up her smalls and buttoned her trousers; grateful for the obscuring foliage. Patting her flushed cheeks with her fingers in an attempt to even out their colour, she emerged from the tangle of leaves with her usual solemn expression firmly in place.

Duncan reached down a hand from the saddle, his own tawny features also fixed in deliberate neutrality as he removed his foot from the stirrup. Flora stretched out her fingers to receive his gloved grip, planting her boot in the stirrup and hoisting herself back into the saddle.

Now that their healer had been retrieved from the undergrowth, the party resumed their journey once again. They were all conscious of the slowly descending sun – nobody wanted to enter a Darkspawn nest without the day's comforting illumination at their backs. The drizzle eased off, leaving the swampy ground even soggier than it had been originally; the hooves of the horses sunk several inches into the mire with each step.

Flora shifted against the pommel of the saddle, tensing each of her limbs to see if there were any aches or bruises that needed her attention. At her back Duncan remained quiet for several minutes; gripping the reins loosely with his gaze fixed unblinkingly above her head.

Once the Warden-Commander had judged that the company's attention was preoccupied with the trail ahead, he brushed his lips against the back of Flora's neck. Although he did not voice the words out loud; it was quite clearly a gesture of mingled enquiry and concern.

"I'm fine," she whispered, conscious of her words carrying in the stagnant air. "I'm actually really clumsy. It's normal for me to fall off things."

Duncan gave a stiff nod, and for several minutes they rode in silence. The light began to wane in small increments; the hoarse cry of some carnivorous bird tore across the the sky as it swooped down on its hapless prey. The horses began to grow visibly nervous as they trod the marshy ground, sensing the presence of something foul and hostile coming increasingly near.

The Warden-Commander then touched his recruit's soft cheek with a gloved finger; having quickly established the continued distraction of the company. Flora turned her head instinctively into the caress, and their mouths came together a moment later. The kiss was soft and lingering, gentle lips working rather than passionate tongues; yet when it ended she was breathless, panting. When Duncan drew back she let out a small sound of protest, and he had to restrain himself from smiling.

"Later," he assured her under his breath as the party came to a halt on the trail ahead. "In my tent."

 

Their horses drew together in a circle in the centre of the path, the scout's expression suddenly very serious. He was holding up the map, one gloved finger pointing to a dark smudge near the border. The ink had not fared well in the damp and constant drizzle of the marshes; much of the map's annotations had seeped across the parchment.

"We're not far," the scout said, tersely. "The nest is beneath us. The cave entrance lies a half-acre to the south."

" _Finally!"_ declared Cailan in triumph, giving his reins an excited shake as his horse shifted from one hoof to the other. "Let's go! I'm growing tired of traipsing around in this Maker-damned swamp!"

Nobody else seemed to share his enthusiasm. They knew well the vicious nature of their enemy; which fought with rusted blades and poisoned arrows that set a fatal rot inside one's body. It was an enemy that kept launching itself forwards with unspeakable rage even if maimed and mutilated; the scout had once seen the mangled upper half of a Hurlock clawing its way across the dirt towards a foe, entrails spilling out from its severed abdomen.

More galling still, they were not fighting these creatures in a defence of their homeland. They had ventured into the Wilds on the whim of their reckless king, who desired to risk all their lives just to add another heroic refrain to the ballad of his exploits.

Without exchanging much in the way of words, they tied the horses to a tree just out of sight of the cave mouth. The entrance to the Darkspawn nest was half submerged in the marshy ground, an innocuous yet vaguely sinister shadowed opening not five feet in height. They would need to crouch to gain access; save for Flora, who would merely have to duck her head.

Armour was donned – full armour for those who fought with sword and shield, thicker leathers for those who stuck with speed and agility; even the Circle mage wore a breastplate and helm over his robes. Duncan strapped himself into the griffin-emblazoned garb of the  _Commander of the Grey,_ astonished at how much  _lighter_  the breastplate felt since he had begun to receive extended attentions from Flora's uniquely restorative mouth.

Flora herself did not have a breastplate nor a protective helm – she had her blue and silver striped Warden-tabard, and a high necked, long sleeved navy tunic below. One legacy of her four years spent in the Circle had been an utter disregard for privacy. Flora had begun to peel off her travelling clothes in the middle of the grassy clearing before Duncan had hastily side-stepped in front of her, using his own broad body to shield his recruit from the curious eyes of the company. To avoid provoking suspicion, he had also kept his back turned, despite knowing full-well what Flora looked like beneath her clothing. The bann's son had commented on her lack of protective garb; she had replied that anything strong enough to penetrate her shield would also be strong enough to demolish any amount of physical armour.

As the others retrieved their weapons, Duncan checked the edge of his swords, methodically inspecting each one from tip to hilt. His preferred style of fighting – wielding twin blades in deadly, synchronised arcs – necessitated the fine-honing of the blades to a razor sharpness.

 _Need to stick close to the king,_ he thought to himself, watching Cailan slash his blade enthusiastically through the air.  _He stands out like the Divine in a whorehouse in that ridiculous golden armour. Flora will have to keep an eye on him at all times; both, when she can spare them._

Duncan's dark, Rivaini gaze slid sideways to where Flora was standing several yards away, trying to weave her hair into a braid. At first, it seemed as though the thickness and volume of the dark red mass was giving her difficulty; but Duncan had seen her anchor it without much trouble before. Looking more closely, he noticed the trembling of her fingers and the slight pallor to her skin, beads of perspiration rising to her forehead.

 _She's frightened,_ Duncan realised, one greying eyebrow rising in surprise.  _Is she?_

He said her name quietly, the word wending its way over the damp grass beneath the nervous snorting of the horses and the rustling of the men donning their armour. She looked up with a start, the corners of her full mouth turned downwards a fraction more than usual. Her grey eyes rose to meet his, wide and anxious; the pale irises standing out against the fringe of dark lashes. Her dark red hair fell in a contrasting cloud against the high-necked navy tunic, ignoring the attempts of her quavering fingers to tame it.

_I was right, she is scared._

_Well, the girl is barely nineteen years old, and not yet a month out of the Circle. The only thing she had to fear in that tower was getting on the wrong side of a Templar._

Flora dropped her gaze miserably to the grass, knowing that her mentor had seen the fear in her eyes. Now, she felt shame mingling with the bitter taste of fright beneath her tongue.

"Here."

His voice was soft, not wanting to draw the attention of the others. Crossing the damp soil in a handful of strides, Duncan came to a halt beside her. He paused for a moment and then sheathed his blades on his back; reaching out to weave the loose mass of dark red into a thick braid.

"I used to tie these into my hair when I was younger, and had time for such frivolous decoration," he murmured, calloused fingers expertly working the thick strands.

"No, surprisingly," he commented drily, eyes focused on his task. "Smaller braids. Just one or two."

"Like the General," Flora said, recalling the thin, woven strands hanging down at either side of Loghain's hollowed cheeks.

"Aye. One of the very  _few_ things that we have in common," Duncan replied, deftly retrieving the leather band from Flora's fingers and tying it around the end of the braid. "There. Will that do?"

She nodded, swallowing a lump in her throat.

 _I'm the cause of this,_ Duncan thought with a vague sense of guilt as he gazed down at her anxious, finely-hewn face.  _I made the decision to take her from the Circle, knowing her age and inexperience._

_I don't regret it. This girl has a rare gift; one that may prove invaluable in upcoming weeks._

"Have faith in yourself and the spirits that aid you, Flora," he said softly, glancing quickly over his shoulder to confirm that the others were preoccupied with strapping on the last of the armour. "You're capable of much more than you think."

The Warden-Commander reached out with an impulsive thumb, stroking the high, angular bone of his recruit's cheek. She leaned her face into the caress, his palm cradling the side of her face with unexpected tenderness.

" _Hurry up!"_

Cailan's impatient command echoed around the clearing, the king eager to begin the purge of the Darkspawn nest.

Duncan withdrew his hand from Flora's face, feeling an odd sense of loss.

"Right," he said somewhat abruptly, turning to face the others. "Anybody who intends on returning to Ostagar intact should listen  _very carefully_ to me for the next two minutes."


	10. Comfort

Two hours later, the company emerged from the cave entrance into a soft, violet twilight. The moon was rising on the eastern horizon, vast and wreathed in yellow cloud, casting an odd, sallow light across the marshes.

Nobody spoke as they spilled out from the low entrance way into the grassy clearing, covered from head to toe in the fetid residue of the taint; their bloodied weapons held in trembling hands. Cailan pulled the golden helm from his head with a shaking hand and let it drop to the damp grass. As the others emerged behind him, he turned in an attempt to make some triumphant declaration – after all, they had accomplished their expedition's goal and the Darkspawn nest had been cleared – but changed his mind on seeing the expressions of those following in his wake.

One by one, the members of the company emerged into the bruised twilight; stunned and silent. The horrors of what they had witnessed inside the cave was inscribed red and raw within their skulls; once they reached the evening's campsite, each man was quietly resolved to drink as much as it took to obliterate the memory.

 _That was a particularly bad one,_ Duncan thought grimly to himself as he ducked out onto the grassy clearing.  _The Darkspawn must have been using that cave system as food storage. Poor Chasind bastards. We couldn't do anything for that unfortunate little lass; she'd been all but eaten alive by the time we'd followed her screams to their source._

Duncan heard his young recruit emerging behind him, her boots crunching over the layer of bones that carpeted the entrance to the Darkspawn nest. He glanced over his shoulder, seeing her duck her head to avoid the low-hanging rock at the cave mouth. She was also covered in unpleasant matter, but it was the dried, coagulating crimson of human blood; both from the members of their own party, and from the unfortunate Chasind girl that they had been too late to save.

Duncan gazed at her for a moment, tasting the bitter tang of guilt beneath his tongue.

_I don't regret taking her down into that Maker-forsaken pit. We wouldn't have stood a chance without that ethereal shield blossoming in the darkness; deflecting fanged maw and poisoned blade. Cailan's arm would be growing black veins of taint if she hadn't put her mouth to that bite mark. The light emitting from her hand illuminated our passage for two hours._

_I'm surprised she's not drained, actually. It must be some powerful spirits that aid her._

"We should press on to the campsite," Duncan said, raising his voice to break the silence. "There'll be more Darkspawn returning here after dark, and we've not the numbers to see them off."

 

Fortunately, Cailan did not attempt to suggest that they stay behind to ambush the new arrivals; even the reckless young king seemed to realise that this would not be a popular choice in the circumstances. They took off their stained armour and rinsed the pieces in a nearby stagnant pond; not wanting the taint to linger in proximity to their bodies. The horses whickered in relief on seeing their riders return, shifting on the damp grass with nostrils flaring. The beasts could smell death on the air; only their exceptional training had prevented them from breaking their lines and fleeing.

The evening's chosen campsite was only an hour's worth of riding away according to the smudged map; the trail ran alongside a meandering river in a tawny shade of brown. The horses walked far closer than they would in usual circumstance, almost nose-to-tail, picking up on the tension radiating from their riders. Cailan tried to start up a conversation on several occasions – mostly asking if the others had seen him inflict a particularly impressive blow against a charging Hurlock – but gleaned little in the way of response.

Duncan brought up the rear of the company, with Flora perched on the front of his saddle. She had removed the pieces of her bloodied armour, sitting before him clad only in her smallclothes and a loose shirt that Duncan was sure belonged to Alistair. Her small, naked feet dangled alongside the horse's flanks, slender legs emerging bare beneath the shirt.

Despite the proximity of Flora's half-clothed body, continuing the earlier illicit fondling was the last thing on the Warden-Commander's mind. Instead, he drew her against his chest and concentrated on breathing in a slow, regular rhythm; hoping that the measured throb of his heart might help to calm her. She was trembling against him, her body rigid as a yardstick, fingers pleating the hem of her shirt in mindless folds.

"Flora," he murmured under his breath as he heard her quick, shallow exhalations. "Breathe deeply. You're panting like an overheated Mabari."

Flora inhaled unsteadily, inhaling in ragged gasps. Duncan reached up and spread his broad palm over her chest, firm and gentle; regulating the frequency of her breathing until it was slower and more even.

"Good girl," the Warden-Commander murmured, slightly ashamed of his twitching cock as he felt the ripeness of her small breasts beneath his palm. "Keep breathing deeply, young sister."

They reached the designated campsite just as the moon reached its apex; a gravelled clearing at the foot of a small cliff, with a spring of fresh water emerging at its base. A fire was built and lit, the tents constructed in a ragged circle around it. Nobody suggested cooking anything for dinner. They had left the day's appetite for meat behind in the Darkspawn cave, amidst the pulsing remains and human entrails scattered haphazardly across the cave floor.

Instead, the company sat in silence around the fire, eating hunks of bread and cheese while taking it in turns to bathe in the fresh water of the wellspring. The scout set up a series of traps around the campsite to avoid the need for anyone to sit up alone on watch. By common, unspoken consensus, they withdrew to their separate tents shortly after bathing; save for the mage and the bann's son, who stayed beside the fire to share a bottle of Antivan fire-whiskey.

 

The night drew in early across the Wilds, a veil of shadow draped itself over the marsh like a winding cloth. The crickets had fallen silent; somewhere in the distance, an owl let out a long and melancholy call.

Duncan lay back on his bedroll, gazing up at a patch of mildew on the canvas above his head. He had his cock in his hand and was idly stroking it; more in a vague appreciation of its renewed sensitivity than a concerted effort to pleasure himself.

 _I doubt she's going to come in tonight,_  he thought to himself, a touch regretfully.  _She barely said a word on the journey back; but her pulse was racing like a trapped bird._

_Was this nest particularly bad? I've grown so used to the horrors inflicted by the Darkspawn that it requires a lot to shock me._

On reflection, Duncan thought to himself that it  _was_  probably a traumatic experience for those not accustomed to the carnage left behind by bloodlust-fuelled Hurlocks and Genlocks.

_Especially for a nineteen year old with little experience of anything beyond her native village or the Circle tower._

_Perhaps I ought to go and check on her._

Just as Duncan resolved to pay a visit to his recruit's tent, he felt the distinct  _pull_ in the back of his mind that indicated one of his fellow Wardens was approaching. Moments later, Flora ducked in through the loose-hanging canvas flap, bare-legged in one of Alistair's shirts. Her hair, still damp from bathing, hung in loose, wet tendrils about her shoulders.

Duncan tucked his half-erect cock measuredly back into his trousers; deliberately letting her glimpse its thick, tawny length and swollen, weeping head.

Flora came to a halt, kneeling in the centre of the tent with several conflicting expressions mingled across her lovely, grave face. Her full mouth was turned down at the corners, her grey eyes huge and luminous with anxiety.

Duncan propped himself up on his elbows and gazed at her for a long moment, the creases in his forehead deepening. There was no evidence of the shy, eager anticipation that Flora had been wreathed in the previous night when she had come to his tent; only a soft, brittle disquiet that radiated off her in an aura.

Flora reached up to her collar and unfastened three buttons with trembling fingers, drawing her borrowed shirt open to show the Warden-Commander her small, creamy breasts. The nipples, pink and sweet as raspberries, invited the caress of tongue and fingers; the plump undersides of each breast demanded to be squeezed like ripe fruit.

Duncan sat up straight, feeling his cock spring to attention within his breeches as a desirous sheen of saliva formed on his tongue. There was a small part of his rational mind that warned him that things were not quite the same as when she had come to him the previous night; but in this particular instant, lust overrode reason.

_Such a beautiful creature. I didn't realise I was still capable of lusting so much._

Reaching out, the Warden-Commander cupped one pert little breast in his calloused palm; bowing his head to lovingly kiss and suckle on the delicious pink tip. He could feel it harden obligingly beneath his tongue, blood rushing to the sensitive nipple in response to his gentle licks.

 _I'm just going to take my cock out and leave it lying on my thigh,_ he thought to himself, dazedly.  _Then she can take the initiative. If she tries to mount it, I don't think I could resist._

The next moment, Duncan heard a faint sniff from somewhere above him. His eyebrows shot into his greying hairline and he drew back; dark Rivaini gaze settling on his young recruit's face. Tears were trickling down her cheeks in sad parallel tracks, her eyes gleamed with a fresh wetness discernible even in the gloom.

"Flora, " he said softly, and Flora's cheeks flared with both sadness and shame.

"Sorry," she whispered, wiping her nose unceremoniously on her sleeve. "I- I shouldn't have come. I'll go back to my tent."

 _She looks like a rabbit cornered by Mabari,_ Duncan thought suddenly to himself.  _I'd bet she can still see those eviscerated Chasind when she closes her eyes._

_I took her from the Circle. She's my responsibility._

"Stay here," he suggested, kindly. "There's more than enough room."

Flora inhaled, blinking at him in wide-eyed confusion. Duncan gave a small,  confirming nod, setting back against the bedroll and lifting an arm. She settled down against his chest, turning her face into his shoulder and exhaling unsteadily. He pulled the blanket up so that it covered both of them; tightening his grip around Flora's narrow back as she curled up against his side like a sleepy Mabari. Impulsively, he ducked his head and pressed his lips against the top of her head, kissing the damp hair.

For several minutes, Duncan stroked her back between her narrow shoulder-blades; feeling her heartbeat gradually begin to slow. The warmth crept back into her fingers as they curled into the collar of his tunic. He kissed the top of her ear, surprised at how naturally it came.

_It must have been decades since I last comforted someone._

Duncan drew his recruit more tightly against him, a sudden warmth creeping into his core to mingle with the lust. It took him some time to recognise the feeling as  _affection;_ a realisation which immediately sent a jolt of warning through his core.

_You're on dangerous ground, Rivaini. Send her back to her tent; she's stopped crying._

Instead, Duncan deliberately sought out the full, trembling mouth of his young recruit. For the next ten minutes, they exchanged a series of soft, lingering kisses, each gentle press of the lips more tender than the last as they lay tangled together on the bedroll. With each kiss, Duncan felt her relax, the earlier tension draining in slow increments from her tense limbs.

Eventually mouths parted with a wet sigh, and for several moments they lay with their faces inches apart on the bedroll; each gazing fixedly at the other. Duncan reached out to touch her cheek with his thumb, admiring the contrast between the deep olive and soft creaminess of their skin.

 _Dangerous ground,_ Duncan's rational mind reminded him once again as they gazed into each other's eyes with soft, blossoming regard.  _She's young and inexperienced; and she wanted to be fucked, not to fall in love._

He tasted something different on her tongue when he went to kiss her again; a shy sense of wonder that he suddenly wanted to coax into the open. Instead of withdrawing, he worked her lips with a new depth of passion; savouring each half-gasp and pleasured sigh.

Flora fell asleep a short while later, soothed by the soft stroking of his palm between her shoulder-blades. Duncan gazed down at the top of her dark red head, unable to fight a growing sense of disquiet in the pit of his stomach.

_There's no way this can end well. Even if we survive the battle with the Darkspawn; I have perhaps a year or two left before my Calling._

_Although… the whispers in the back of my skull have been muted since I begun to taste her mouth. My senses pulse with new sensitivity; my memories are clearer and easier to retrieve._

_Are her kisses reversing the taint's claim over my body?_

The Warden-Commander held his healer tightly to his chest; feeling his heartbeat surge rapidly within his ribcage.

_Maker's Breath._


	11. Touch and Tongue

Several hours later, Duncan was in the middle of a pleasurable dream involving Flora and Cailan's full-breasted, dark-haired archer; when he was woken by the equally pleasurable sensation of fingers stroking tentatively at the semi-erect flesh within his breeches. He opened an eye to see Flora gazing down at his clothed, half-flaccid cock. Biting her lip, she reached out to trace its outline against the linen. As he watched, the breath caught in his throat, one of her fingers slid through the slit in the material and pressed curiously against the warm, fleshy length.

"Shall I take it out?" Duncan murmured throatily; his dark pupils blown wide with desire.

Flora startled and blushed, not realising that he had been watching her exploratory fondling. When she nodded, he reached down to unfasten the buttons of his sleep-trousers, pushing them down over the broad, sinewy muscle of his thighs. His cock lay half-turgid against his stomach, broad and long; the skin a shade darker than the rest of his body. His heavy sac was nestled between his thighs, full and meaty.

Flora reached out with a finger, running it along the length of the semi-rigid shaft. She let her finger nudge against the tight fold of skin at the tip, wondering at the liquid seeping out across the glossy surface of the head. When she patted it, it made a wet sound; Duncan let out a soft, strangled moan. She reached down to cup his heated sac against her palm, feeling the warm weight of it and squeezing with tentative curiosity.

An owl gave a sudden, low hoot from an overhanging branch above the tent, and Flora paused; still not entirely used to hearing nighttime noises without a muffling layer of stone. She lifted her head in the direction of the sound, eyes widening at its proximity.

"Whaaa- "

"Keep playing with my cock, baby," Duncan breathed, the sternness undermined by raw arousal. "Don't stop, you little minx."

Flora returned her gaze to him with a sleepy smile, fingers resuming their curious exploration.

It soon became an exercise in restraint for the Warden-Commander as he gritted his teeth; determined not to spill himself prematurely like an overeager youth. His resolve weakened with each gentle stroke and caress of her fingers; which brought him inadvertently closer to the apex of pleasure.

 _You've been pleasured for hours by more experienced and skilled lovers,_ he chastised himself, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead.  _And your Warden stamina has never failed you._

_You had a reputation as a lover who could last all night, back in your youth. You were renowned for it two decades ago._

_Why then are you about to spill your breeches beneath the clumsy, well-meaning ministrations of a virgin?_

Duncan inhaled unsteadily as she traced her fingertip in a circle over the wet, taut head of his cock. The whole tawny length was throbbing gently, pulsing with each rhythmic surge of blood. Flora stared at the thick, dark column of flesh with naked fascination, her cheeks flushing as she envisioned it thrusting between her legs.

"I've wanted to give you my cock for weeks," the Warden-Commander murmured; resting back on the bedroll and parting his muscled thighs. "How do you find it, my desert rose?"

"I like it a lot," she whispered back, feeling the slick fold of skin nestled around the head of the shaft. "Can you show me how to touch it?"

Duncan nodded, clearing his throat as she withdrew her hand. He reached down and curled practised fingers around the base of his length; with the expertise of someone who had been pleasuring themselves for decades. Engaging in masturbation - or sexual relations - was an effective way to relieve some of the immense pressure of being a Grey Warden. Duncan rarely went to bed without spilling his seed, either in his own palm or between the willing lips of a volunteer.

In recent years, the taint had corroded his sensitivity and dulled the receptors of pleasure; he had to grip himself harder and stroke with increasing vigour to bring himself to climax. The quantity of his seed – once impressive enough to earn him a lewd and unrepeatable nickname – had also noticeably diminished.

Yet now, as Duncan took himself in hand and prepared to clamp down hard with his fingers; he let out a soft grunt of astonishment. His cock – for the first time in years – was sensitive to the touch; twitching in response to even the slightest contact with his palm.

"Fuck," he said in surprise, feeling his buttocks contract with sheer pleasure.  _"Fuck,_ that feels amazing."

Unable to resist Duncan began to stroke himself, marvelling at the renewed tenderness of his shaft. He could feel the faintest whisper of cool night air across his cockhead, and he was aware of his sac's meaty weight as it hung plump between his thighs. A hoarse, involuntary moan of pleasure slipped from his throat as a new thought blossomed in the lusty depths of his mind.

_What is it going to feel like when she sucks on me for the first time?_

Duncan forced himself to focus on the situation at hand, returning his gaze to Flora. She was staring fixedly at his stroking fingers, cheeks flushed as her own hand moved between her thighs. Duncan recognised the little circular motions well – he had spent several enjoyable hours teaching her how to pleasure her own pearl.

"I'm going to show you how to work this cock," he told her with deliberate crudeness, watching the nipples stiffen beneath her linen shirt. "And if you aren't too tired later, I'll let you do other things to it as well."

"Like the Orlesian girls do?"

"Mm. Yes.  _Fuck_."

Flora smiled at him, shifting position on the bedroom and tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Reacting without thinking, Duncan reached out to touch her cheek; sliding his thumb along the hollow of her fine-hewn jaw. She tilted her cheek into his hand, nuzzling it without any coherent verbal response.

Ignoring the sudden urge to kiss that full, deceptively sulky mouth, Duncan instead reached down to grip her wrist gently; guiding her fingers around his cock.

"Grip it lightly," he instructed, trying to keep his voice steady. "Then move your hand in the same way as I did earlier."

Flora did as she was told, wondering at the warm meatiness of the shaft as it twitched against her palm.

"Don't I have to do anything else?" she asked uncertainly, one loose fist sliding up and down his cock with soft, wet fleshy noises.

 _You're a beautiful nineteen year old with the perkiest little tits I've ever had the pleasure of fondling,_ Duncan thought to himself, stifling a low groan of pleasure.  _You could stroke me with a finger while reciting the Chant half-asleep and I'd still spill my seed for you._

"Just keep going, my sweet peach."

Eventually, they ended up in a tangle of limbs on the bedroll; her naked in his arms and letting out whimpers of pleasure. Unsurprisingly, they had ended up embracing in a long, languid kiss, their tongues moving with a gentle tenderness that contrasted with the furious mutual pleasuring occurring beneath the blanket. Duncan was sliding two broad fingers in and out between her legs; his thumb caressing yet another climax from her slick and quivering pearl.

Through a combination of Warden stamina and sheer stubbornness, Duncan had managed to delay his own orgasm. On several occasions, he had needed to squeeze the base of his shaft to impede climax; beads of sweat forming on his forehead. After he'd brought Flora to a third mind-numbing orgasm by nudging at her wrinkled pucker while stroking her small button of pleasure; the Warden-Commander decided that he was going to let himself come.

_She's satiated. My turn._

"I'm so close," he murmured, eyeing her small breasts as they quivered with the vigour of her strokes. "Please, baby. I  _need_  to come."

Hearing the raw entreaty in the commander's voice, Flora began to stroke him as quickly as she was able; her wet palm sliding from root to cockhead. Duncan let out a hoarse moan, his eyes half-closing as he relinquished control of his own pleasure to his pretty-breasted young recruit. As a healer, Flora had grown up with the lives of men  _literally_ within the palms of her hands, but she viewed this power as a Maker-given responsibility.

Now, Flora found herself with the third most powerful man in Ferelden caught within her thrall; incoherent and helpless beneath the rhythmic stroking of her inexperienced fingers as his cock strained for release. She hadn't realised that the caresses of her hand had restored the youthful sensitivity of his shaft, but she was not the type of girl to keep a man poised helpless on the brink.

Clenching her fist, Flora began to pump her fingers up and down with renewed vigour; her small breasts quivering with effort. Duncan was now arching off the bedroll, fingers clenched in the blanket as though to gain traction; fragments of his native tongue slipping between his lips.

Without warning, the Warden-Commander let out a strangled cry; hips bucking upwards in erratic convulsion as he rode the most potent climax he'd experienced in years. His cock shuddered, almost a dozen jets of creamy substance shooting up from the swollen, exposed head. Most splattered across his recruit's bare breasts and startled face; though some reached the canvas tent walls.

Flora blinked in surprise, gazing down at her saturated hand. Her fingers were coated in a warm, milky substance; she rubbed them together curiously.

Duncan, his vision clearing in slow increments, managed to focus on Flora as she knelt over his wilting cock. There was something both sensual and obscene about her beautiful face and small, creamy breasts coated in splashes of his seed.

Without meaning to, he let out a guilty snort of amusement, reaching out to touch her cheek.

"Sorry,  _columba_."

Flora, as a healer, had been covered in far worse substances. She smiled at him, taking surreptitious peeks down at his plump, half-soft length as it rested against his thigh.

"It's fine," she whispered shyly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Impulsively Duncan reached out to draw her down against his chest; seeking out her mouth with his own. For several minutes, they kissed with gentle, post-climax languor, his hand roaming over her rounded buttocks.

The Warden-Commander broke the kiss a few moments later, easing his recruit off and fastening his sleep trousers back up. Flora shot him a slightly perturbed look; she had expected that they would spend the next few hours kissing, fondling and bringing each other to mutual climax.

Duncan smiled at her expression, canting his chin towards the crumpled pile of linen in the corner.

"Put Alistair's shirt back on and come with me."

Outside, the night had reached its richest hour, the stars finally emerging from behind their veil of cloud. The camp was illuminated in a silvery wash; the fire had burnt out several hours previously. There was no sound save for the soft snoring of the horses, the Wilds seemed quiet and almost docile beneath this nocturnal sheen.

Duncan led Flora around the back of the ragged circle of tents, careful to avoid any guy ropes or discarded equipment that might cause some attention-rousing noise. The Warden-Commander was garbed in trousers and could explain his nighttime wanderings as a patrol; harder to excuse would be the half-naked girl in his wake, her breasts and lovely face covered in his dry seed.

Duncan need not have bothered with such secrecy, since his dalliance with his recruit was now common knowledge. Yesterday, during the ride to the Darkspawn nest, the scout had happened to glance over his shoulder. At the rear of the party, their healer was sitting red-faced on the saddle before Duncan; her eyes closed and her mouth open in an  _O_ of pleasure. His hand had been moving vigorously down the front of her trousers; moments later, the scout was rewarded with the sight of Flora climaxing, her entire body shuddering in ecstasy.

Immediately, the scout had told the other members of the party. It did not come as a particular surprise – there had been a palpable sexual tension between the Warden-Commander and his newest recruit since they had departed Ostagar. The sighs of pleasure and sounds of wet flesh coming from Duncan's tent only confirmed their suspicions.

By this point, Duncan did not care what opinions the others had formed about him rutting his exceedingly-willing nineteen year old recruit. He led the half-naked Flora between the tents, past the horses and down a sloping grassy bank. The spring emerged from a crack in the rock; forming a small, knee-deep pool of fresh water.

Duncan came to a halt on the damp grass beside the water's edge, turning Flora to face him. He unbuttoned Alistair's shirt, peeling the sweaty material from her flushed skin and letting it drop.

Following his guidance, Flora stepped into the spring, letting out a soft squeak at its subterranean chill. Duncan splashed into the water after her, feeling his cock shrivel. He let out a soft curse in Rivaini, hearing her stifle a giggle.

"It's colder than a hermit's balls," the Warden-Commander muttered, watching goosebumps rise to her breasts. "Let's get you cleaned up."

Even as he helped Flora to wash his dried spend from her chest, Duncan could not resist the coarser urges pulsing in his half-turgid cock. Hearing the breath catch in her throat as he bathed her breasts gave him an idea. Reaching down to spread her folds with his broad fingers, Duncan let several dribbles of cold water run directly over the bundle of raw nerve endings colloquially known as the  _pearl of pleasure._

Flora gasped, her eyes widening and pupils constricting as an involuntary moan of pleasure escaped her throat. The corner of Duncan's mouth curved upwards, and he pressed his cold thumb directly against the flushed little nub of flesh.

"When we return to Ostagar," he murmured, rubbing her in slow, teasing circles. "I'm going to get some ice from the cold store, and I'm going to rub it on your nipples, over your tight little ass, and especially down  _here."_

Duncan gave her pearl a loving tap and she let out a helpless, hoarse whimper. The sound made his cock stiffen against his linen trousers, and he had to force himself to focus, kneeling with his feet still submerged in the water.

Reaching out to grasp Flora's fingers, he nudged her up onto the bank; nodding for her to lie down. Flora lowered herself to the damp grass, resting back on her elbows with strands of wet hair plastered to her breasts. She peered down at Duncan, pink-cheeked and expectant; readily letting him spread her knees open.

Duncan gazed at her flushed, velvety folds, noticing how swollen and plump they appeared compared to several days prior. With a guilt-laced surge of pride, he realised that this was the result of his own prolonged fondling.

"Is your little cunt tender?" he asked throatily, stroking himself unashamedly as he stared down at her body. "Does it feel sensitive to touch?"

When she nodded, Duncan let out a soft groan of pleasure; gripping himself firmer in hand as he stared down at her.

_You beautiful girl. I love how readily you spread your legs for me._

"Well, that's no problem," the Warden-Commander replied, softly. "Because I'm going to kiss it better."

From her position in the damp grass, Flora stared at him, feeling her heartbeat surge rapidly forward. She blinked in confusion as Duncan positioned himself between her thighs; still admirably lithe for a man several years into his fifth decade.

"Kiss it better?" she breathed in bemusement, watching her mentor moisten his lips in preparation.  _"Kiss?"_

"Aye," he replied, pressing a soft kiss to her thigh. "Keep your legs wide apart, my lovely. A cunt as pretty as yours shouldn't be hidden."


	12. An Intimate Kiss

Flora looked confused as he bowed his head, but did as he asked. She remained sprawled on her back in the damp grass; her mentor kneeling between her legs, dark eyes intensely focused in preparation.

Duncan spent a moment familiarising himself with his recruit's delicate slit; licking his lips as he took in the folds in deepening shades of pink, the succulent bud of flesh half hidden at the top, the indentation at the juncture of her thighs.

 _I could give her a few licks and then work my cock in,_ he thought, hungrily.  _She'd happily take it._

Planting a series of kisses to her thigh, glanced along her smooth, pale stomach and past the pert little breasts, letting his gaze rest on her face. She was flushed with anticipation and no small bewilderment; clearly wondering why his head was between her legs.

_She knows what fucking is. But this particular delight is unknown to her._

Grimly, Duncan resolved to set the bar for any man who would spread these pretty thighs in the years to come.

_I want to be the benchmark for every man she invites into her bed. If she takes a husband, I want her to remember my tongue, my fingers, my cock on the wedding night._

_She'll pleasure herself for years to the memory of what I'm about to do._

Duncan lowered his head and let his tongue lave over her in one long, languid lap; flattening his tongue to cover as much flesh as possible. He heard her let out a strangled little whimper of shock, and had to suppress a smile.

"How does it feel when I do that, dove?"

" _I like it,"_ she breathed back, the wonder evident in her words. "Feels –  _nice."_

Over the next twenty minutes, Duncan lavished attention to his recruit's swollen folds. He suckled on them with tender affection, working them apart with his tongue as though he were kissing her mouth. He parted them with the pressure of his tongue, teasing the wrinkle that marked to her virginal slit with gentle kisses.

Every so often Duncan would pause, breathing hot and excited over the slick folds; teasing the hidden entrance with a finger while murmuring lewd praise to her overstimulated lips.

"You taste so deliciously sweet, my desert rose," he murmured, each word interspersed with a loving kiss to her soft, downy mound. "Like wildflower honey. Now I want to start each day breaking my fast with this sweet nectar. I'll have you brought to my table and placed there with legs spread apart for me to feast on."

Flora let out a choked whimper, arching herself off the grass with her elbows dug into the mud. Her mind was scattered to the four corners of Thedas; she had lost the ability to speak coherently, or think of anything other than her desperate need for him  _not to stop._ The sounds coming out of her mouth did not sound like her; desperate, wanton little moans and whimpers that slipped like prayers from her throat. She had climaxed twice in the past twenty minutes; not caring that her wails penetrated the night air like the clarion calls of an owl.

"Maker, you're so wet for me, baby," he breathed, lust and pride fighting for dominance in his predatory face. "What a good girl. Time for my prize."

Duncan pressed one calloused thumb above her slit and pulled gently upwards, fully exposing the slick, deep pink pearl of pleasure. Letting his mouth cup her lovingly, he started to tease the small button with his tongue.

She inhaled in shock, her hips jerking suddenly upwards. Smiling to himself, Duncan anchored her thighs in place over her shoulder; giving her no choice but to yield to the slow, inexorable probe of his tongue. The Warden-Commander prided himself on his ability to deliver oral pleasure – it was somewhat of a Rivaini speciality – and now he unleashed three decades of experience on Flora's virgin cunt.

He circled her little pearl with the tip of his tongue, sucked gently at it; breathed hot air over the slick flesh before pressing down a thumb made cold with spring water. Duncan could feel it pulsing beneath his ardent attentions; the flesh swollen to the size of a small pea.

Instead of teasing her by bringing her agonisingly close to the edge and then stopping just short; he was determined to coax as many climaxes as possible from his young recruit. He wanted her to come over and over on his tongue, his name gasped out from her lips and her entire body liquified into a seamless, quivering mass of pleasure.

 _I want tonight to be seared into your memory_ , Duncan thought feverishly as she came undone beneath him for a fifth, breathless time.  _I don't care if you have a procession of handsome young men lapping at you on feather beds in fire-warmed chambers; you'll always think back on this chilly autumn night, lying in the damp grass in the middle of the Wilds, with the Warden-Commander of Ferelden bent between your thighs._

By this point, Flora was nearly delirious with pleasure, her eyes squeezed closed and her moistened lips parted in a soft, continuous whimper of pleasure. Duncan wondered if he could coax a sixth climax from her throat; taking a long draw of air in preparation.

"Just once more, baby," he murmured, lowering his mouth between her thighs. "I want to see this little cunt  _quiver._ Say my name when you come."

This time, Duncan lapped lovingly at his recruit as he slid a broad finger between her slick, quivering folds, crooking it to nudge against her most sensitive inner spot. With a skill borne from long practice, the Warden-Commander suckled tenderly on Flora's throbbing pearl while fingering her with slow, lazy desire.

Soon after, he heard Flora whimpering in frustration as she sought a sixth elusive climax. Her hips were bucking frantically into his fingers; her cheeks flushed and her mouth wide open.

"Please," she begged the chilly autumn air, in strangled and desperate tones.  _"Please,"_

Without pausing in his oral ministrations, Duncan dipped his little finger between Flora's folds; swirling it around her entrance to moisten its length. Reaching back between her legs, he slid his slick finger a delicious half-inch into her wrinkled pucker.

" _Oh! Oh, Duncan!"_

His name tore from her throat like a desperate sinner's prayer as she climaxed for a sixth time. Duncan put his mouth to the tiny indent of her slit, determined to lap up as much of her sweet arousal as he could. Flora lay half-coherent on the grass, trembling and satiated, only vaguely aware of what was going on. She could feel Duncan's beard brushing against her thighs; after a moment she realised that he was still gently tonguing her swollen folds, pressing tender kisses against her over-stimulated pearl.

"You beautiful creature," he murmured thickly, raising his head and staring at her with dark, blown-open pupils. "I could watch you come for me all day."

Reaching down, he drew his engorged cock from his sleeping-trousers; the deep crimson head exposed and weeping a clear liquid. Gripping the broad length by the root, he angled it between her legs and leaned forward.

Flora out a sleepy moan of assent, letting her thighs loll apart and yielding her flushed, pinkened maidenhood to him. Even at a distance he could feel the heat radiating from it; a pulse of wanton need.

"Please put it in," she begged, arching her hips upwards desperately. "I want it so badly. I  _need_ it in me."

Duncan had never before experienced such temptation. His cock urged him brutally onwards; to work himself into her virgin cunt and fuck her into the damp grass.

_She's been begging for it for days. Even when we were kissing on that first night, she was humping herself against my erect cock through my trousers._

_But she's weary now, her little pearl numb and sore from being suckled on. When I make love to her for the first time, I want her alert and desperate for touch; so she can fully appreciate every inch of my cock sliding inside her._

"Not yet, my sweet starling," he murmured, letting his heavy cock trail over her folds. "Soon, I promise."

Flora let out a little whimper, squirming as Duncan began to stimulate himself against her folds; stroking his length in a practised, calloused palm as he rubbed his cockhead repeatedly over her slick, swollen pearl. He had been painfully close to climax for far too long, and it took only a few minutes of dedicated stroking before his balls begin to contract. Flora, feeling the heavy sac twitch between her thighs, let out a little whimper of excitement and arched her hips invitingly.

" _Please,"_ she begged, desperately.

Duncan's resolve broke spectacularly. He angled his cock at the base of her folds and let the dripping head push in, sliding one glorious inch into her willing slit. The sudden heat and friction – combined with her moan of delight - proved too much.

" _Fuck – fuck- "_

A hoarse groan escaped his throat, hips shuddering as he shot off spurt after spurt inside his wide-eyed recruit. He kept the tip of his cock inside her until he was sure that all of his seed had been expended; wanting none to go to waste.

Dazed from the newfound potency of climax, Duncan hunched over her for several moments; feeling himself slip out of her as his shaft softened. Flora sat up on the damp grass and reached out a hand, cupping the side of his bearded face with her palm. He stared blindly down at her, mind temporarily shrunk to a more primal state from the force of his climax. She smiled up at him, letting her thumb meander down the angle of his jaw.

"By all the old spirits," he breathed eventually, made hoarse by her. "I just glimpsed the inside of the Black City."

Flora's smile widened even as she went pink, glancing down at the wet grass. Duncan reached up to tilt her chin upwards, resting his weight on a hand to lean forward and kiss her. Their mouths worked together tenderly, languid and satiated; tongues gently rolling together.

Duncan felt her flinch in shock as she tasted herself on him. In response, he deepened the kiss, transferring her own arousal into her startled mouth.

"You are more delicious than manuka honey from an  _al-razi_ comb," he murmured, wondering at all the old, forgotten Rivaini compliments emerging from the languishing depths of his memory. "Thank you for letting me taste."

"Thank you for- " Flora made a little gesture, flushing. "I… I enjoyed it a lot."

"I could tell," he replied gravely, enjoying the deepening red of her cheeks. "You look so beautiful when you come."

She shot him a look of shy delight, tucking a strand of wet hair behind her ear before clambering awkwardly to her feet.

"I should go back to my tent."

He rose to his feet, grateful that his limbs seemed relatively steady.

"Why not stay in my tent?" he asked softly, dark Rivaini eyes focused on hers.

"Because we ought to get some sleep," Flora countered, trying not to giggle. "And we can't stop touching each other when we lie down together."

Duncan smiled, acknowledging the truth in her point.

"A compromise, then," he breathed, eyes wandering over her nakedness. "Come back to my tent and let me fondle you  _once_ more until you come in my arms. Then I swear I'll just hold you for the rest of the night."

Flora – who much preferred the prospect of curling against her commander's warm chest as opposed to a soggy bedroll – readily acquiesced.

Duncan was as good as his word. Back in his tent, he stroked his recruit into a final, gentle orgasm; kissing her mouth tenderly as she came undone. After letting her suck her own pleasure from his fingers, he held out an arm and she settled down, yawning, against his chest.

Within minutes, she had fallen asleep; to Duncan's surprise, he found himself rapidly following her through the Veil.

 _This girl's body is a miracle,_ he thought incoherently to himself, the waking world fading.  _It gives me an odd sense of hope._

 

The next morning, the Warden-Commander and his recruit were discovered in a rather compromising position by none other than the king himself. Dawn was breaking and the others in the company were only just starting to stir, but the sulking Cailan had been up for some time already.

After listening to his pretty little healer whimpering through the canvas for nearly an hour, the king's frustration reached its apex. He strode around to the tent entrance and pulled back the loose canvas, ducking his head inside.

"I can't  _believe_  this," Cailan hissed, a petulant vein threaded through his words as he glowered down at the pair entwined on the bedroll. "Duncan, you told me to stay away from Dora, and I  _heard_  you rutting her last night."

Duncan peered up at the sulking young king, pulling the blanket up to cover Flora's breasts as she lay curled against his side. She was pink in the face, both from being caught and from the gentle, rhythmic rubbing of Duncan's finger. They had been touching each other beneath the blanket before being so rudely interrupting; sharing tender kisses as their fingers fondled and stroked. The Warden-Commander's erection was clearly visible; the outline of his stiff cock tenting the thin wool.

"Her name is  _Flora_ ," the Warden-Commander said evenly, hearing Flora bite back a gasp as he continued to stimulate her surreptitiously beneath the blanket. "And who I invite to my tent is my own business, Cailan."

Duncan fixed the king with a dark, unblinking stare; Cailan met it for a moment before his pale blue eyes slid away. Letting out a little disgruntled huff, the king withdrew; letting the entrance flap drop in his wake.

"He thinks you were rutting me last night," Flora whispered, letting out a soft sigh of pleasure as she felt his two fingers sheath themselves inside her. "When are you going to lie with me properly?"

"Tonight," he promised, pumping his fingers leisurely in and out. "You've been very patient, my little dove."

She gave a moan of anticipation, kicking the blanket away with a foot and arching her hips against the bedroll.


	13. Penetration

There were a few risqué comments from the rest of the company as they broke their fast; it was now common knowledge that their two Wardens were sharing a bedroll. Duncan bore the comments with a half-smile of amusement, while Flora was grateful for her own natural solemnity. Contrary to Duncan's expectations, nobody seemed much-bothered by the revelation that the Warden-Commander was rutting his own recruit. The only one who seemed at all perturbed was Cailan. The king had intended to take advantage of Loghain's absence to openly pursue the pretty, red-headed healer. By now, he had expected that  _Dora_ would be bouncing happily in his lap; instead, she was opening her legs for a man three decades older with grey streaking his beard.

They packed up the tents and the rest of the camping equipment onto the backs of the patient horses. Before the sun had risen, the company had set off on the trail northwards; grateful that they were at last heading out of the Wilds. There was at least another full day of riding ahead of them before Ostagar and the Southron Hills came into view, but at least they were lessening the distance with every mile travelled.

The scout travelled first, the map in hand and flanked by two guards. He was followed by the nervous mage and the bann's son, who were trying to avoid looking one another in the eye after engaging in intimate activities the previous night.

Duncan and Flora came next, sharing the same saddle as usual. To the Warden-Commander's annoyance, Cailan had insisted on riding alongside them; chattering away incessantly about his heroic performance within the Darkspawn nest. The two Wardens had only been able to exchange swift, stolen kisses during the moments when the king had looked away. Duncan was unsure whether he was grateful for the constant friction of Flora's pert, leather-clad rear against his painfully hard shaft. She was quite obviously aware of his arousal; having positioned her buttocks deliberately over his swollen cockhead.

"You little tease," Duncan murmured in her ear, taking advantage of Cailan's momentary distraction. "If you want my cock in your ass, you just need to ask."

Flora blushed, biting her lip even as she felt a twinge of arousal between her legs.

"I'd like to try it," she whispered, keeping her voice low enough to avoid Cailan's attention. "I like it when you touch me there, so I think I'd enjoy it,"

"I've got an oil in my tent at Ostagar we can use," Duncan replied, trying to keep his voice steady. "I'll show you all the pleasures of the flesh that the Chantry refuse to acknowledge."

She smiled at him, and he felt another perennial, deep-seated twinge of guilt.

_I should be teaching her the kind of spells cast by a Darkspawn magister, not charming my way between those pert buttocks._

The Warden-Commander shifted himself several inches further back along the saddle, away from the temptation of his recruit's warm, inviting body. He kept his grip taut on the reins, gaze directed fixedly forwards as she shot him a curious look.

 

For the remaining hours of the day, they followed the winding trail north through the Wilds; retracing their steps over the rotten boardwalk and through the clearing with the tree that Flora had climbed. By mutual silent agreement they did not stop for lunch, instead retrieving bread, cheese and apples from their packs and eating them while still astride the saddle. Each member of the company – even Cailan – was eager to leave the claustrophobic wilderness of Ferelden's southernmost region. As though trying to prevent them from leaving, the tree branches reached out to tangle in hair and tug at reins. The undergrowth seemed to have grown wilder and far unrulier since they had passed through it two days prior; even the swampy pools to either side were dull and stagnant.

The sun barely bothered to emerge from behind its veil of cloud all day; a sickly and pallid light filtering down to wash over the Wilds. A light drizzle fell on and off, and after the third time it stopped and began again; the company resigned themselves to the fact that it would most likely be wet until evening.

The horses, with their thick, bristled coats and long eyelashes, were less bothered by the continuous damp. Flora, a northerner from Ferelden's most turbulent coastline, also couldn't care less about the rain. Duncan – who had spent much of his young adulthood cursing the wet weather in Highever – did not share this quality, despite his temporary residence on the north coast. He still had Rivaini heat running through his veins, his rich olive skin a constant reminder of the warmer climes that were native to him.

They came across a sole injured Darkspawn – dragging a mangled leg and thus abandoned by the pack – just as dusk was falling. It gave a snarl as it caught sight of their party and made an attempt to lunge towards them; moments later, it was incinerated by a blast of flame from the mage's staff.

Just as the edge of the anaemic sun touched the western horizon, the company reached their designated campsite. The majority of the Wilds lacked substantial foliage – the ground was too fetid and the water too stagnant for healthy growth – but there was one clump of trees within the region known as  _False Fir Thicket._ The trunks rose up like silent sentinels, their bark dark and brittle from insufficient nourishment, crowded together within the space of an acre. Their tangled branches formed a canopy overhead that blocked out the remaining sun, but also sheltered them from much of the rain.

They pitched their tents in a ragged circle amidst a carpet of dried fir needles. Duncan made a wilful effort to place his tent opposite Flora's – removing himself as far as possible from temptation. He had spent all afternoon convincing himself that it was a bad idea to continue such dalliance with his recruit; listing through the reasons in his head until they reached a half-dozen items.

_She's thirty years younger than you. She's your recruit and it's an abuse of power. Her kiss weakens the Blight's corruption, and your career is built on the taint. Alistair is a far more suitable candidate for her to experiment with; if the lad ever grows brave enough to touch her._

_She's a distraction. You've been far too often preoccupied with touching her than you have keeping an eye on your surroundings._

_And you don't want to inadvertently encourage any inappropriate feelings in the girl._

_Or for her._

Flora had not questioned why her commander had suddenly placed his tent at the furthest point from her own. Granted, she had been exceedingly concerned about the construction of her own sleeping quarters – pitching a tent was still relatively unfamiliar – but even when she  _had_ noticed the placement of his tent, she had barely spared it a glance.

Duncan caught her eye as they unpacked the cooking equipment from the horses; she had smiled at him, but the nature of her grave and thoughtful face meant that even this gesture was ambiguous.

"I'm looking forward to dinner," Flora informed him solemnly, her arms full of pots and pans. "Though I miss fish, I wouldn't want to eat anything that swam in these marshes."

Duncan let out a grunt in response, his dark eye following her as she advanced carefully towards the half-built campfire.

The fire was finished with a few dry branches from the surrounding area; soon it was crackling away hungrily, a beacon of orange and crimson amidst the dark cathedral of trees. A thin column of smoke wended its way upwards towards the canopy; a sickle moon was just about visible through the tangled branches overhead.

The Warden-Commander took pains to sit himself opposite Flora as they ate. Normally, he would have positioned himself at her side, their knees pressed together; but he was determined to resist these myriad opportunities for touch.

Unfortunately, this only provided Duncan with a better angle to admire the beauty of his young recruit. He found his eye wandering freely over her body; admiring the swell of her small breast against her shirt, the creamy hollow of her throat, the full and sensuous lips that fell naturally into a sulking pout.

 _That's a mouth made for love,_ he thought idly to himself.  _Those lips are begging to be suckled, to be gently bitten. They yielded so wantonly beneath my tongue when I kissed her._

_I've never heard anything so beautiful as her moans last night, when I licked her for nearly an hour on the damp grass. I wish I could have bottled them._

_She let me touch anywhere I desired._

 

After dinner, the company established a system of watches. Night drew in quickly enough that nobody saw much point in staying up; it was not the sort of expedition where card games would be played or stories told late into the evening. By this point, everybody wished for morning to come swiftly so that they could return to Ostagar. The Wilds were a grim and unforgiving place, and even the old Tevinter fortress seemed like a preferable location to dwell.

The drizzle had stopped, and it was a cold, crisp night with a breeze that ruffled the carpet of pine needles on the forest floor. Flora took the first watch, with the scout taking over shortly afterwards. There was no movement amidst the tree trunks, neither animal nor enemy choosing to disturb the weary party on this homeward leg of their expedition.

Duncan slept better than he had done in years, thanks to the rejuvenative properties of his young healer's tongue. When the scout came to wake him, the Warden-Commander was surprised to find himself fully rested.

He distracted himself during the hour of his watch by running through what still needed to be done at Ostagar to prepare for the final assault. The time passed quickly, and soon the yawning mage came to relieve him.

 _The dwarves have almost finished assembling their siege weaponry,_ Duncan thought to himself as he picked his way across the pine needles.  _Though I wish Cailan would have allowed me to summon the rest of Orzammar. They're required to provide aid, and –_

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft, stifled sigh coming from Flora's tent, followed by the unmistakable sound of wet flesh being fondled. Duncan froze in his steps, a thousand irrational possibilities surging through his mind.

_Cailan was kind to her earlier and she smiled at him. Perhaps – thinking I've lost interest – she's letting him work his Theirin cock between those ripe little folds._

_My recruit could be getting fucked right now, yards from where I'm standing._

_It should have been my cock taking her for the first time. I was the first man to kiss her and stroke that pretty cunt. I brought her to her first climax._

He saw that the entrance flap to Flora's tent was hanging slightly open, pallid moonlight creeping inside. Unable to stop himself, Duncan stepped closer with catlike delicacy; mentally preparing himself for the sight within.

_The king's tawny buttocks pumping away between Flora's spread thighs; his balls colliding against slick flesh. His lips suckling at her delicious little nipple as she whimpers._

_Or perhaps they haven't reached that stage yet. Maybe they're tangled in each other's arms, sharing soft and languid kisses as he strokes her pearl lovingly. He's a handsome young man and she's very beautiful; they'd look good together and Cailan has always been concerned with the way things appear._

_Perhaps he'll take her as his mistress and move her into his tent at Ostagar; so he can rehearse troop movements in the morning and fuck a pretty girl all afternoon._

Duncan did not know which scenario was worse. Taking a deep breath, he pulled aside the canvas flap and peered inside.

Flora was sprawled on her bedroll, Alistair's shirt fully unbuttoned and pulled apart. She had an expression of intense concentration on her face; mingled with a raw edge of pleasure. Her nipples stood out stiff from her creamy breasts, a thin film of sweat covering her skin.

In her hand, she was holding the rounded glass bulb of a vial used to collect samples, though this one appeared empty. The neck of the phial – a crude spout about two and a half inches long – was nestled firmly between the slick folds of her cunt.

As Duncan watched, Flora began to gently slide the neck of the phial in and out of her virginal slit, the fingers of her other hand stroking lightly at her pearl. A flush rose from her breasts up to her neck; and an expression of sheer ecstasy settled across her pink-checked face. Unable to stop herself, she let out a moan of pure delight, arching her hips towards her small, artificial phallus.

He reached down without thinking, unbuckled his belt and loosened his trousers. His dark cock sprang free, broad and painfully hard. Ducking inside the tent, Duncan let the canvas flap fall behind him; pushing his breeches around his thighs and shifting forwards to position himself between her legs.

Flora opened her eyes, dazed and half-delirious from the pleasure resulting from her self-stimulation. She smiled up at Duncan as he reached between her thighs, gently gripping the neck of the glass vial where it lay nestled within her slick folds.

"Does this feel good, baby?" he murmured, sliding the glass neck in and out with measured steadiness.

"Mmm," Flora gasped back, curling her fingers into the fraying edge of the bedroll."

"Would you like something that feels even  _better_  inside that little cunt?"

Instead of replying, she parted her thighs and let out a breathless whimper. Even as he spoke, Duncan had removed the vial and lined up his cockhead against her slit; confident that she would agree.

Just as he was about to work his way inside her, the Warden-Commander glanced up and caught sight of her face. There was still pleasure writ across the grave and lovely features, mingled with arousal and anticipation, yet – for the first time – there was an edge of nervousness there.

In a demonstration of admirable restraint, Duncan withdrew from between her legs. Flora let out a small squeak of confusion, and he hastened to reassure her; drawing her against his chest and tilting her face towards him.

"Let me kiss that pretty mouth before I make you mine," he murmured, gratified to see her smile. "I'm going to get you good and ready for my cock."

They kissed for the next hour, mouths working languidly together as they lay entwined on the bedroll. The remainder of their clothing ended up in a tangle at their feet, and for the first time they lay entirely naked in each other's arms. Duncan coaxed two climaxes from between Flora's legs with his calloused thumb, wanting her to be as relaxed as possible in preparation to be penetrated. He was now sliding a pair of fingers in and out of her slick folds, marvelling at the wetness he found there.

Flora was not allowed to touch her mentor in response; he wanted to last for as long as possible during the act itself. She could feel him hard against her thigh, twitching rhythmically, the tip leaking copious clear fluid over her skin.

After sharing one final, tender kiss, Duncan drew back and smiled down at his inexperienced young partner; caressing her face like a newlywed.

"You're more than ready, love," he murmured, each word coated with raw affection. "My sweet comb of honey."

As he spoke endearments, the Warden-Commander repositioned himself so that he was kneeling between her parted legs. Reaching down, he lifted Flora's hips to create a more suitable angle for penetration; gripping her small foot by the ankle and suckling her toes as she whimpered.

Finally, Duncan was in the position he had fantasised about ever since glimpsing his recruit's shirt plastered to her breasts several weeks prior. The head of his cock was pressed against the conjunction of her swollen folds; he could clearly feel the indentation of her virginal cunt.

_This should be with a boy her own age. Alistair should be fumbling with his cock between her legs as he tries to find her entrance._

For a moment he paused, caught in indecision.

" _Please,"_ Flora begged, a desperate edge to her tone. "Don't stop. I need you."

Duncan pushed his cockhead inside her folds; knowing that she was familiar at least with this. When Cailan had caught them together that morning, he had assumed that Duncan had been shamelessly rutting his recruit; in reality, he had been dipping the swollen tip of his cock in and out of her as they shared loving kisses.

"Ready, sweetheart?" he asked, throatily; thighs trembling with self-restraint. "I'm going to go slowly."

Flora nodded, and he began to work himself in, increasing the pressure in small increments. As his cock pushed deeper, he felt her little cunt tensing up; a strangled gasp escaping her throat. Leaning forward, he pressed a kiss against her mouth; reassuring and tender.

"Breathe, love," Duncan murmured, softly. "Breathe deeply. You feel so  _fucking_  good."

He continued to push inside her, inch by slow inch; feeling the tight walls yield in gradual increments. She was trembling and wide-eyed beneath him, her fingers clutching folds of the blankets to anchor herself. Every time a little gasp or whine of pain escaped Flora's throat, Duncan would pause momentarily and press a kiss to her parted lips; murmuring praise and reassurance into her ear before inching himself deeper. Fortunately, his concern for her wellbeing helped to distract him from how tightly her cunt gripped his cock; the liquid heat pulsing against his skin with desirous need.

"Fuck," he croaked, three-quarters of the way sheathed inside her. "You're so tight, Flora."

Flora exhaled unsteadily, gazing down between her breasts and over the plane of her stomach. It was strange to see something so masculine between her legs; his thick, tawny shaft sunk almost wholly inside her. As she watched, he lowered himself further; the amount of tawny flesh visible diminishing inch by inch as he penetrated her more deeply. Her heart was racing in her chest; she did not know whether she was nervous, excited, or a combination of the two.

At last, Duncan had sunk himself up to the root, his heavy sac nestled between her thighs. It had taken extraordinary willpower to restrict the velvety, vice-like grip of her newly-used cunt; men with less self-control would have spilt their seed with their cocks only pushed halfway in.

Gathering his composure, Duncan caught Flora's eye and smiled at her.

"I've never seen anything so beautiful as the way you look now," he murmured, reaching down to stroke her sweaty, flushed cheek. "Let's get you used to how my cock feels inside that delicious little cunt."

Duncan repositioned them both so that they were lying side by side on the bedroll, limbs tangled and still joined at the hip. For the next ten minutes, he entirely ignored his own pleasure; letting his shaft pulse inside her as they began to exchange slow, languid kisses. As their lips worked together, he reached down to fondle her slick, swollen pearl of pleasure; revelling in each little whimper and moan that emerged from her throat.

"You took me so well," he murmured tenderly between kisses, rubbing small circles over the tiny nub of flesh. "It feels so fucking  _right_ to be inside you, love. Oh,  _sweet girl. Mm,_ come on my cock."

His stroking had inadvertently coaxed a climax from his pretty-breasted recruit. She let out a helpless whine, shuddering against him with her mouth wide open. Duncan could feel her cunt convulse in erratic waves around him; he let out a throaty grunt of pleasure, relishing the sensation.

"I'm going to start fucking you properly now," he whispered in her ear as she quivered, angling himself on top of her to allow for deeper penetration. "It might feel uncomfortable at first, but I'm going to keep rubbing you while I do it. The more I play with your pearl, the nicer it'll feel for you, sweetheart."

Flora nodded earnestly, and Duncan could not resist leaning forward to press his lips tenderly against hers once again. One kiss turned into several, their mouths working together in quickly-learnt harmony as he began to move within her. His pelvis rocked with exquisite gentleness; letting her grow accustomed to the sensation of his cock pushing in and out. All the while, his thumb teased her swollen pearl of pleasure; stroking it gently before rolling it between his fingers in a way he knew she loved.

Duncan was relieved that he had his pleasuring of her to focus on, since it distracted him from the fact that he was inadvertent about to climax. She felt so  _right_ clenched around his cock; the internal muscle massaging every inch of his length.

Encouraged by Flora's small moans, the Warden-Commander began to rock into her a little harder; muscular olive buttocks clenching each time he pushed deeper. After several minutes, she began to lift her hips tentatively to meet his strokes; her cheeks flushing pink as she grew used to the sensation..

The entwined bodies of commander and recruit soon settled into a rhythm, their hips meeting with a steadily increasing intensity. The wet sounds of flesh meeting flesh – and his heavy sac slapping between her thighs – echoed between and through the canvas walls.

Duncan was groaning with pleasure, letting himself be unashamedly vocal for the first time in years. He knew that he was panting like a Mabari in heat as he fucked into his young recruit; savouring the sweet delights of her cunt with eyes squeezed tightly shut in ecstasy.

" _Fuck – baby –_ you feel so good on my cock," he managed to croak, gripping the underside of her knee and bending it gently upwards. This allowed Duncan to sink even deeper between her thighs, and he let out a hoarse growl of triumph.

As a result of both his stroking fingers and gentle, powerful thrusts, Flora came for a third time since they had begun to move together. Duncan knew how to extend her climaxes until she was little more than a quivering mess; petting her buttocks while nibbling gently at her nipples.

They rutted on the bedroll for one exquisite hour, though this included a prolonged session of tender, affectionate kisses partway through. Overcome by a sudden surge of sentiment, Duncan had stopped his thrusting and embraced her; pressing his mouth lovingly to hers as he whispered endearments into her ears. For several minutes they did nothing but gaze into the other's eyes; mutually enamoured.

Before long, Duncan was once again thrusting unashamedly between her thighs as he chased his own climax. Small, animalistic grunts slipped from his lips as he fucked his moaning recruit; oblivious to everything but the delicious friction around his cock and Flora's little whines of delight.

"Do you want to take my seed?" he half-gasped at last, knowing he would not be able to withdraw. "Oh, fuck –  _I'm coming- "_

Duncan gripped her hips and angled them upwards, keeping her impaled firmly on his cock as it let out a half-dozen powerful spurts deep inside her. A half-strangled Rivaini curse slipped from his lips as his vision constricted into narrow dots; his thighs shuddering and buttocks tensing with the force of his climax.

He kept himself sheathed to the hilt within Flora until he was sure that every last drop had been milked from him; keeping her held firmly in place on his cock. Unable to resist, the Warden-Commander rocked himself gently in and out of her seed-filled cunt; wanting to savour the potent sensation even as his length began to shrivel.

He let out a soft groan of frustration as he finally slipped out of her; taking his limp cock in hand and rubbing it lewdly over her swollen, newly penetrated folds in an effort to maintain his erection.

"Maker," he croaked, managing to work the head inside her yielding slit. "I need more of that gorgeous little cunt. Keep your legs spread, darling, I'm going back in."

Flora smiled dazedly at him, the corners of her mouth catching his attention as they curved upwards. Duncan gazed at her for a moment, then let his half-turgid cock slide gently out; lying down on the bedroll and drawing her into his arms.

For the next short while they kissed in satiated, post-coital languor, their mouths working together with mutual passion. He whispered a string of Rivaini erotic endearments into her ear, his fingers moving to stroke the parts of her body he was praising. They slid from her breasts to her bottom; ending up thrusting gently within her slit. He kept kissing her even as he fingered her; combining the loving and the lewd.

 

They made love twice more that night, once when the Warden-Commander woke his gifted young healer with a kiss in the darkness; and again in the grey light of dawn when she had climbed naked atop his hips. Duncan had kept her in place with strong hands, thrusting his cock upwards over and over between her slick, readily yielding folds.

 _I'll teach her how to ride me properly at Ostagar,_ he thought dazedly, keeping her impaled on his shaft in the languor of post-coital bliss.  _She's going to look so gorgeous bouncing in my lap, those pert little breasts juddering._

Once he was sure that every drop of seed had settled itself inside her, Duncan withdrew carefully from between Flora's legs, keeping her on top of him. As was quickly becoming a habit, their mouths came together and they shared a series of tender kisses; each one gentler and more affectionate than the last.

 _You old fool,_ Duncan thought furiously to himself even as he gazed deep into her limpid, long-lashed eyes.  _You were just supposed to fuck her; to show her the physical pleasure she'd been missing during the years of virginity._

_Instead, you're gazing into her eyes like an enamoured adolescent, playing with her hair and giving her gentle, adoring kisses. You draw her into your arms as you sleep, then wake her by tenderly nuzzling her neck. This is not how you usually take women._

_Maker's Breath, we're acting like newlyweds._


	14. Return to Ostagar

As dawn continued to spill its sallow light across the Wilds – the marshes seemed to filter out any accompanying warmth – Duncan lay awake on his bedroll, listening to the sounds of the men awakening around him. A dozing Flora lay sprawled part on his shoulder and part on the bedroll, facedown and naked; the blanket pulled up around her waist. His fingers traced the slender length of her back, wandering up her spine and between the narrow breadth of her shoulders. Her thick mass of hair had been hastily stuffed into a braid, which lay like a fraying rope of crimson seaweed near her head.

 _Her skin is flawless,_ he thought to himself, tracing the faint pattern of tan freckles across her shoulder blades.  _There's no residual mark of battle, no fresh-made scar; a result of both her shield and her ability to heal I'd imagine. This isn't the body of a soldier._

Flora made a small sound, her face scrunching up almost comedically as she roused herself. Duncan turned his head, just in time to catch her eye as she blinked herself awake. Unable to resist the temptation, he leaned forward and pressed his lips gently to hers; greeting her with a tender kiss.

"Good morning," he murmured as he drew back, watching Flora's eyes widen as she recalled the events of the previous night.

"Morning," she whispered back, awed at the residual ache in her pelvis. "Last night – did we… did we…"

"Aye, we laid together," he confirmed, gravely. "We had sex three times. How are you feeling, love? I'm afraid I forgot to be quite so gentle on the last occasion."

Flora wriggled experimentally beneath the blankets, shifting her thighs.

"A bit sore," she replied, in a thoughtful voice. "It feels sensitive down there."

 _Because I'm nine inches in length and thick with it,_ Duncan thought wryly, caressing her pert buttock beneath the blanket.  _Not that I'd ever mention it._

_Besides, if her first time had been with Alistair, she'd be even more sore. The lad is hung like a Ferelden Forder; I've heard the others teasing him._

_Perhaps this might be a way to quash these dangerous new emotions. Steer her towards the lad._

"And you've no regrets, my little robin?" he murmured, giving the ripe mound of flesh a squeeze. "I confess, I half-thought it would be Alistair parting these pretty thighs for the first time. You two get on well."

Flora blushed, trying to imagine herself writhing away in the corner of the Warden tent with Alistair as the other recruits snored around them.

"The Maker has endowed him generously," continued Duncan, smiling up to cover the twinge of unwelcome jealousy in his gut. " _Very generously."_

"I… I know," Flora whispered back, pink-cheeked.

Although she and Alistair customarily turned their backs on each other to change, they were both curious and inexperienced adolescents; and found ways to peek at one another at various moments. After a knotted tunic had slipped, he had glimpsed her breasts and the red hair at the apex of her thighs. Likewise, she had pretended to be asleep one night as he stroked himself surreptitiously beneath the blanket; the wool falling away during the moment of climax.

Duncan did not miss the slight blush that rose to his recruit's cheeks as she confessed that she had indeed seen Alistair's manhood.

_Of course she's wondered what it would be like to open her legs for her equally inexperienced friend. Look at her going an exquisite shade of pink._

_Maybe I could facilitate that back at Ostagar. Under my supervision and direction, of course. And I'd have to take her first as an example; show him how she likes to be pleasured._

From around them, there now came distinct sounds of movement. The camp was rousing itself, eager to get underway on the journey back to Ostagar. All going well, the scout was planning an arrival at the Tevinter fortress by nightfall. It was testament to the fetid inhospitality of the Wilds; that even the brutal ugliness of Ostagar seemed preferable.

Yet Duncan, still sprawled on his bedroll with Flora curled at his side, felt oddly reluctant about the prospect. This five day venture into the Wilds had been like a strange, heady dream; infused with a healthy dose of eroticism. From the very first night – when Flora had kissed him the riverbank – he had been lost in odd adolescent fantasy. The activities they had engaged in over the last few days - groping openly on the saddle, performing sexual acts on each other outside the privacy of the tent, rutting in full, glorious volume behind the canvas – could not continue once they returned to Ostagar.

 _She's going to return to the Warden tent, sleeping on a lumpen bedroll beside Alistair,_ Duncan thought, grimly.  _I won't wake to that beautiful face and those sweet little breasts pressed against my side anymore._

_Or receive those delicious, stolen kisses, our mouths working tenderly together when the others weren't looking. There'll always be someone watching at Ostagar, and I need to appear committed to my duty; not distracted by my beautiful new recruit._

_My solemn, brave, full-hearted recruit._

The Warden-Commander felt the heat of a stare, and opened his eyes to see Flora peering curiously at him. For a brief moment, he almost felt like laughing – in defiance of discreteness, his young Warden-recruit could not have looked more post-coital if she'd tried. Her lips were plump and reddened from too much kissing, her cheeks were pinkened and her skin aglow with the aftermath of climax. Her hair was dishevelled from being rutted against the bedroll, and her pert breasts were covered with marks from his sucking kisses.

 _She looks like a girl well-fucked,_ Duncan thought with a brief surge of satisfaction as he glimpsed the swollen folds between her thighs.  _Which she is._

_Perhaps there's time for one more –_

The Warden-Commander rolled Flora over onto the bedroll, taking his cock in hand as she let out a breathy squeak of excitement, parting her legs eagerly. He was just working himself carefully between her slick, sensitive folds, when the canvas entrance flap was gracelessly yanked back. A petulant voice spilled into the tent, alongside the pallid light of dawn.

"Can we stop at another Darkspawn nest on the way back?" the king demanded, as Duncan groaned under his breath and pulled the blanket over their hips. "I want to return to Ostagar claiming that I've slain  _one hundred Darkspawn._ I'm only on about thirty eight."

"I don't think that's a good idea, Cailan," Duncan replied in measured tones, continuing to thrust gently into his gasping lover beneath the embroidered wool. "We're running low on supplies and your company is exhausted. Our attention should be focused wholly on the horde's final charge now."

 _Ironic, when your thoughts are so divided at present,_ he thought to himself, savouring the hot, velvety cling of Flora's slit.  _Mm, I could spend all day inside this lovely cunt. Those sweet little noises she makes are addictive._

Cailan pouted, the sting of his proposal's rejection alleviated somewhat by the sight of the mage-girl's high, creamy breasts. The pert mounds quivered each time that her mentor sheathed himself surreptitiously between her thighs beneath the obscuring blanket.

"Are you sure? We have Dora's shield, it just seems a shame to neglect the opportunity!"

"I'm sure," Duncan replied, pausing in his actions to shoot a hawklike glower over his shoulder. "There'll be plenty of Darkspawn for the killing in the upcoming weeks."

"Hmph," the king grumbled, watching the muscle and sinew flexing beneath the Warden-Commander's tawny back. "Can I at least stay and watch you finish in her, then?"

"No," grunted back Duncan, the blanket slipping from his taut olive buttocks as he increased the potency of his thrusts. "We'll be done in five minutes. Be patient, Cailan."

Sure enough, four minutes later Duncan was reaching the apex of his own arousal; holding Flora's slender ankles against his shoulders as he thrust into her with increasing urgency. Hoarse, guttural grunts escaped his throat with each deep push, buttocks clenching as he felt white-hot pleasure shooting up the length of his cock. In moments, a half-dozen spurts of the Warden-Commander's seed had been planted within his willing recruit. Without letting himself think too deeply on his own motivations, Duncan kept himself buried between her sensitive folds; angling her hips so that not even a single drop of his vital fluid was wasted.

Once he was satisfied that she had taken it all, he leaned forward on his elbows for a kiss. Their mouths moved in leisurely rhythm, tender and affectionate; tongues rubbing together in a sensuous dance. Soon enough, they were kissing and groping beneath the blanket. Flora slid her fist lovingly up and down Duncan's stiffening shaft; while he was wriggling a sly fingertip around her swollen pearl of pleasure. Only Cailan's pointed slap on the canvas tent wall prevented Duncan from rutting his eager young recruit for a fifth time within eight hours.

 

Once again, there were a few lewd comments as the camp was packed up; most of which were fuelled by jealousy. Each man present – save for one not inclined in that way – had spilled his seed over his fist at some point over the expedition while imagining themselves on top of their pretty young mage. On the other hand, nobody could blame Duncan for seizing the opportunity to bed his recruit; especially since she had been witnessed venturing half-naked into his tent for the past few nights.

Once the camp had been fully disassembled, the company mounted their horses and set out on the trail northwards. It was a good thing that the purple Southron mountains were visible as a guiding landmark; since the mutable Wilds seemed to change with every sunrise. Tracks were submerged, bridges seemed to vanish; trees which had been upright lay toppled. The entire orientation of the Wilds was intangible and oddly impermanent, the swamp perhaps intelligible only to its mysterious residents.

The majority of the party rode in relative silence, exchanging only a few brief words as their horses plodded stoically onwards. Dark clouds were drawing in overhead, an ominous portent for the afternoon's weather. Sure enough, after they had paused for a quick lunch and to water the horses, the first few drops of rain began to fall from the heavy skies. In the distance, a low rumble of thunder echoed through the brooding heavens.

An hour into the afternoon's journey, Flora tapped her fingers against the back of Duncan's riding glove. The Warden-Commander had not spoken much for the past few hours; and save for a quick squeeze of her breast earlier, he had otherwise sat quite chastely on the saddle. Flora wondered if he were mentally preparing themselves for the change in their circumstances back at Ostagar; when she would return to the communal dormitory and he to his private tent.

"Duncan?"

"Yes, young sister?"

"What's the weather like in Rivain?"

There was a pause, her commander clearly lost in thought. When she twisted her head to peer at him, Duncan was half-smiling; his face wreathed in wistful memory. For a moment, Flora fancied that she saw shifting sands and limpid waters reflected in his dark eyes; the landscape of a homeland not visited in two decades.

"Heat so dry it dries up your throat like an abandoned well," he said quietly after a moment, half-watching her fingers stroking the back of his glove. "There's no cloud. The sky is a clear wash of blue. The sun is merciless and takes no prisoners. You, my sweet, would be as pink as an Orlesian fancy."

Duncan dropped his gaze to the patch of creamy skin visible at her collarbone. Flora's complexion was typically Ferelden; pale skin, pale eyes and richly- hued hair.

"I'd get burnt?"

"Aye,  _amira._ You'd be crimson."

"Like a lobster," she replied, then laughed at the image. "I'd clash with my own hair."

Duncan smiled, then leaned forward to press an impulsive kiss against the back of Flora's neck, brushing the loose strands of oxblood to one side. He felt Flora reflexively nestle back against him, her head turning hopefully to one side.

Leaning forward, he sought her lips with his; not caring who witnessed him pressing a kiss to his gifted healer's eager mouth.

 _Fuck it,_ he thought, defiantly. _Why shouldn't I embrace her?_

_It's hardly professional; but these are dark and desperate times. Who can blame me for seeking solace in a pert young bosom?_

_Maker, I'd take her right now if I could; bent over that tree stump. Having her tight little rump pressed against my cock has been agony all morning. Fucking exquisite torture, though._

_Maker, she came so loud and joyfully for me last night. I'm sure that Alistair heard it, miles away at Ostagar._

"I've never been beyond Ferelden," Flora confessed, jolting the Warden-Commander from his reveries. "I can't imagine ever leaving. Where have you been, apart from Rivain?"

"Orlais, a handful of times, each more tedious than the last," he replied, wryly. "The Marches, more often than I can count. I've passed through the Anderfel mountains twice."

"The Anderfel mountains," his recruit repeated, these being so far away that she could barely comprehend them. "They're up north? Are they cold?"

Duncan laughed, almost able to taste the arid dust gathering at the back of his throat.

"No, dove. They're inhospitable lumps of rock, blasted by sandstorms and gale-winds. It's so dry and hot up there that great funnels of sand roam the valleys unchecked. The soil is nearly impossible to farm, it's such poor quality."

Flora listened, her brow furrowing.

"They sound dreadful," she breathed, appalled. "I think I'll stay in Ferelden. Alistair didn't have much good to say about Orlais, either."

"Alistair has never  _been_ to Orlais," corrected Duncan, steering the horse around a patch of suspicious looking mud across the trail ahead. "Ah, but he's probably heard myself and the other senior wardens speak ill of it often enough."

 _There's something of the Cousland in you,_ he thought to himself as she made a little dismissive sound in her throat.  _Your voice has the timbre of the north and the dialect of a commoner, but there's a finesse running through your mannerisms that's taken centuries of fine breeding to develop. It's in the way you tilt your head, the furrow of your brow; the vaguely perplexed jutting of that plump lower lip. You carry yourself like a noble's daughter even though you speak like a peasant._

_Maker, she has no idea who she is but it's not my place to tell her. It doesn't matter anyway; she's a Warden now._

The Wilds were starting to wane now as the company approached their edges; the swamps gradually receding and the undergrowth less tangled. Even the pallid, sickly sky began to brighten in fractions, the autumnal sun lowering itself in the direction of the hills.

"The Marches lie across the Waking Sea," Flora continued thoughtfully after a moment, as the horses made their way along the muddy trails. "Herring – where I come from – is opposite a city named… Crick? Crickle?"

" _Kirkwall,"_ corrected Duncan, gripping the reins loosely between gloved fingers. "Aye, that's one of the largest cities in the Marches. It's an…  _interesting_ place, to say the least."

Flora fell silent, her brow furrowing as she contemplated his words.

 _It stands to reason that she's naïve,_ Duncan thought to himself, squinting off towards the horizon.  _The lass has been kept within a tiny village and then sequestered in a Circle for the majority of her life. She's experienced so little._

_Ah, if only I'd recruited her a handful of years earlier. I could have shown her something of the world other than this grim, Darkspawn-infested corner of Ferelden._

Impulsively, Duncan ducked his head and brushed the hair from her ear, pressing his lips to the pale curve. Flora startled, then smiled up at him from beneath her eyelashes.

 

The Southron hills began to form distinct peaks and valleys; emerging from a distant blur as they neared. The dark silhouette of Ostagar – two lofty towers on either side of a valley, connected by a slender, crumbling arc of a bridge – also came into focus. The intelligent horses detected that they were near home and immediately picked up the pace, ears flickering and tails whisking impatiently. It was a testament to the unpleasantness of the Wilds that even the grim Tevinter fortress seemed like a more appealing destination.

Everybody was also thoroughly tired of Cailan, who had been practising the narration of his heroic exploits out loud; in preparation for delivery to his noble companions. Somewhere between the Darkspawn nest and their current location, he had altered events so that he was the unquestioned hero of the hour; besting a Darkspawn captain single-handedly while fending off a dozen malevolent Genlocks. He had also twisted events so that he had defended a swooning Flora, carrying the company's pretty young mage to safety over his shoulder. Flora listened to this fabrication in mild perplexion, though she was kind enough not to correct him.

By the time that they had passed through the dense forest and crossed the drawbridge into Ostagar's lower courtyard, the sun had sunk below the horizon. The sky was filled with the rich, hues of an autumnal sunset: the clouds reflecting shades of copper, bronze and burnt mustard.

A familiar figure stood waiting for them in the lower courtyard, arms folded and with an anxious expression writ across his handsome, honest-featured face.

"Finally!" Alistair breathed, peering up at them as he shifted from foot to foot on the lower cobblestones. "I thought you'd all defected to one of the Korcari tribes."

Duncan smiled, genuinely pleased to see his recruit of almost six months. Although one was not supposed to have favourites, Alistair's earnestness, bravery and steadfast determination had won him a high place in the Warden-Commander's esteem.

_He's got far more of Maric in him than Cailan._

Alistair reached up, knowing that Flora was not the most experienced or graceful when descending from the saddle. She toppled inelegantly into his arms, her staff falling to the cobbles in his wake.

"Hello, Flo. How was the Darkspawn nest?"

Flora grimaced up at him, pulling a small face. Sympathetic, Alistair clapped a hand gently on her shoulder.

"I still remember the first time Duncan took me into one. It was awful."

Duncan, meanwhile, had been waylaid the moment that he had descended from the horse. It was to be expected – he was the Warden-Commander, after all - and there were a dozen issues that required his attention. Scouts needed to give reports, the dwarves had questions about the siege weapons, one of his senior Wardens had had a disagreement with a Chantry sister about the use of a certain courtyard.

"Flo, if you're not too tired, they could use you up at the infirmary," he overheard Alistair saying to their resident healer. "There's a scout that's been Blighted, he's got valuable information but the corruption has taken hold too deep in his lungs for him to speak it."

Flora nodded, retrieving her pack from the horse and slinging it over her shoulder. Retrieving her staff from the cobbles, she followed Alistair towards a stone archway; asking the cursory questions of a healer.

Duncan watched them go, ignoring the king as he began to boast of his exploits to the grooms that had come to take their horses.

_They'd make a fine-looking couple, though he must have a foot on her in height. Alistair is a handful of inches taller than me, and I dwarf the girl._

_Not that it matters when you're horizontal on a bedroll._

Duncan was preoccupied with routine matters for the next few hours; spending an hour with an over-exuberant Cailan in yet another attempt to persuade him to summon the aid of the dwarves. Once again the king of Ferelden flatly refused, not wanting to share glory with anyone else. Duncan had come very close to losing his temper with the arrogant young man; eventually, he had to make an excuse and rise abruptly to his feet, striding from the Royal tent with the blood running hot and angry in his veins.

Duncan was then waylaid by Loghain Mac Tir, the dour and unamused commander of the Royal Army. As Cailan's father-in-law, Loghain understood well enough the reckless impetuousness of his daughter's husband. The two men managed to have a reasonably civil conversation about the upcoming assault; both believed that the Darkspawn would make their final charge on Ostagar within the month.

As Duncan rose to his feet and made to leave the commander's tent, Loghain coughed and raised his dark eyes to the ceiling; a sour and unamused smile creeping across his prematurely lined face.

"So, will I have another indiscretion to hide from my daughter?"

Duncan, who had no time for vague allusion, stared at the teyrn with one bristling eyebrow lifted a fraction.

Loghain poured himself ale with an abrupt hand. Liquid splashed onto the table, and he muttered a curse under his breath.

"I'm not blind. The king has been talking about your little mage-girl for weeks. The one with that… that  _hair."_

The general made a wry gesture towards his head.

_All that dark red hair._

"It's a  _distinctive_  shade, isn't it? That autumnal crimson. Reminds me of the  _north._ And of a certain family renowned for that particular hue of hair."

"Out with it," Duncan retorted, his patience running thin.

When Loghain merely gave a sarcastic smile in response, topping up his ale, the Warden-Commander let out a derisive snort.

"I thought Fereldan men were known for speaking plainly," he replied, dryly. "Anyway, Cailan didn't take my new recruit into his tent; though not for want of him trying."

Loghain eyed him, warily. As much as the two men disliked each other, they did not have a history of lying to each other.

"Hm. Perhaps not. Maybe you've another political game to play; I see you've partnered her with the bastard."

Losing his patience, Duncan turned on his heel and strode from the Mac Tir tent; brushing aside the canvas with an impatient hand. As he glanced around the bustling courtyard, four different messengers made towards him; but there was no urgency in their faces, and so he instructed that their missives be delivered to other senior wardens instead.

 _I should have known that Loghain would recognise Flora as a Cousland,_ Duncan thought to himself as he stood motionless outside the Mac Tir tent.  _As soon as some of the holes in my Blight-rotted memory had been repaired by her kisses, I knew her for the teyrn's daughter. That rich oxblood hair, the solemn grey eyes; even the high angle of the cheekbones. In his youth, Bryce Cousland was the most handsome young bachelor in Ferelden; they used to call him the Fox._

Duncan was overcome with a sudden irrational urge to see his young healer. Turning his head and assuming an expression that would dissuade anyone from waylaying him, the Warden-Commander set out towards the lower courtyard that served as the infirmary. His way was illuminated by torches and iron-bellied braziers; night had now fully descended on the ancient fortress.

An ominous, choking growl split the chill air as Duncan ducked beneath the crumbling stone archway leading to the infirmary. There was a bestial edge to it that the greying Warden knew well; it made his senses leap to full alert and the blood run hot in his veins.

_That's the snarl of a man half-turned to Blight. Where the corruption has spread so quick that the human body rots within hours._

He quickened his pace, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

_This far gone, there's no saving the man from his fate. Better to slay him now._


	15. In the Warden-Commander's Tent

There was a crowd four-deep clustered in one corner of the infirmary. Chantry sisters, chattering like nervous birds, stood beside grim-faced Templars; mages whispered to each other with confused furrowed across the bells. Soldiers were standing on toppled pillars and wooden bunks for a better view.

Above the fascinated babble of the crowd, Duncan heard Alistair's voice ring out with an unexpected note of stern authority.

"Stay back! Give her some  _room_ to work, won't you?"

By this point, the Warden-Commander had little time for nosy onlookers. With a few choice barks, the gathered crowds had scattered before the tall Rivaini's powerful frame as he strode forwards.

"What's going on?" he demanded, dark eyes flashing with impatient ire.

Alistair was hovering at the forefront of the crowd, his fingers clamped around the hilt of his sword and his hazel gaze intensely focused. A taut energy reverberated through him; the young Warden was clearly ready to leap forward and intervene at a split-second's notice.

The tainted scout had been lashed to a low wooden bunk, chains wrapped around his quivering arms and legs. His bare torso rocked from side to side like a ship in distress, his hands curled into claws. His chest was a mottled white and red, thin, black veins running across the flesh like a spider's web. The man's face was contorted in a rictus snarl, the whites of his eyes crimson; a greyish spittle seeping from the corners of his mouth. A rattle emerged from his chest, low and ominous.

"Maker," Duncan breathed, coming to a standstill. "This man ought to be put out of his misery. He'll be a ghoul by sunrise."

"He's better than he was," Alistair replied in a quiet, wondering voice, having sensed the approach of his commander. "The tainted veins used to be all down his arms, too. And he's not foaming black poison at the mouth anymore. Whatever Flo is doing, it's… I think it's actually  _working._ Poor girl, I don't think it's a particularly nice experience for her."

"Where is she?" Duncan asked, his own tone carefully measured.

Alistair gestured to one side, where Flora stood in the shadow of the wall with her shoulders hunched, a tin cup of water clutched in her trembling hands. The Warden-Commander started in surprise; he had been thoroughly distracted by the spectacle of the Blighted scout.

Flora did not look her best; she was even paler than usual, and her skin had an odd, clammy texture to it. She had quite clearly just been sick, there was a damp stain on the front of her tunic and strands of hair were stuck to her sweaty cheeks.

Yet – despite her pallor - she did not seem weary. Flora's head was tilted to one side, as though she were listening to instructions audible only to her. Her fingers were flexing idly at her thighs, glimmering particles drifting to the cobbles.

"Can you cure him, Flora?" Duncan said quietly, his dark gaze capturing hers like a baited snare.

Flora paused a moment, her eyes unfocused; a whisper from the other side of the Fade echoing within her skull.

"Yes," she croaked, her voice far throatier than was usual. "Yes, I can."

The scout let out a groan that sounded almost human. Flora turned her gaze on him, blinking as though refocusing herself on this more corporeal side of the Veil. After giving a little nod, she headed across the cobbles to return to the man's side.

By the time that she knelt beside him, the golden energy had blossomed into joyful exuberance around her hands; gilded rays of light surging from beneath her bitten fingernails. Veins of gold crept up her throat, creating glinting channels beneath the skin in their wake. With a healer's steely resilience, Flora parted her lips and planted them on the man's gaping maw without hesitation. There was something primal and almost tender in the way that she tilted his face towards her; drawing a great lungful of poison into her throat and letting her own strange magic neutralise it.

It took another hour before the last vestiges of corruption were removed from the scout's body. At the end of it, the man – ironically – looked far healthier than the healer responsible for his recovery. Two of the Chantry sisters had administered an elfroot tincture to help their former patient sleep; he snored away contentedly on the bunk with ruddy cheeks and loose fingers.

Flora, on the other hand, appeared mildly traumatised. Despite receiving assurance from her spirits that she was capable of curing the tainted man, the young mage had never before experienced such a technically difficult and prolonged healing. She had been sick twice more since the Warden-Commander's arrival; her stomach rebelling at the fetid taste of Blight even as her magic strove to cleanse it.

Duncan, Alistair and several other interested parties had remained to watch. These others included a handful of Templars, who were still eyeing Flora with deep mistrust despite her saving of the scout's life. It was now well into night, the moon a sliver of silver that bathed the fortress in a sallow glow.

Flora felt their disapproving gazes prickling against her skin and slumped further on the spot, miserable. She was also embarrassed at being sick in front of her mentor, who had liberally praised her beauty only that morning. The healer was glumly aware of the contrast between her current stained, pallid self and the tousled, pink-cheeked creature that Duncan had bedded hours earlier.

 _She looks so young when she's tired,_ Duncan thought suddenly to himself, watching Alistair making a beeline for his sister-warden with water-pouch in hand.  _Even younger than her nineteen years, which is only a step beyond girlhood in itself._

_What wouldn't I give to take her back to my tent right now? Fill up the copper tub reserved for my usage, and take care of her in whatever way she required._

Instead, the Warden-Commander watched Alistair sling a companiable arm across Flora's shoulders, heedless of her grubby and dishevelled state. After insisting that she rinse out her mouth, he nudged her in the direction of the wash tents; taking Duncan's words to  _look after his new sister-warden_ seriously _._

The Warden-Commander watched them go with conflicting feelings fighting for dominance in his gut. On the one hand, he was proud of Alistair for looking after Flora's interests so assiduously - which Duncan himself had charged the young man with.

_On the other, he'll take her to that wash tent and turn his back as she undresses. And later, they'll lie down side by side on separate bedrolls; and he'll create a barrier between them from his own breastplate._

_There's a passionate young woman hidden beneath that girl's cold-eyed, stoic beauty; and Alistair isn't yet brave enough to coax her out._

 

Still brooding, Duncan retired to his tent; a larger structure made from heavy canvas and a wooden frame. It was large enough to contain a camp-bed, an armour stand, a writing desk and an impressively sturdy dresser. Candles burned in glass jars placed on flat surfaces; and only the faintest smell of mildew emanated from the walls. The sigil of the Grey Wardens hung above the dresser; the griffon's beady eye a constant reminder of their sworn, solemn duty.

There was also a half-clothed woman in Duncan's bed, sprawled invitingly across the embroidered blankets with her Chantry robes hoisted up around her waist. The priestess had been an occasional bed-partner of the Warden-Commander for the past few months; she was a pretty, plump woman in her early forties whose looks were just on the cusp of fading.

As the priestess caught sight of Duncan, she rose to her feet with a little sigh of pleasure; loosening the robe so that it fell around her feet in a pool of creamy linen. She walked naked towards him through the candle-lit gloom, pressing her lips hard against his mouth before dropping to her knees. The Chantry sister knew from experience that the Warden-Commander's cock required excessive coaxing to stand upright; but once it  _did,_ it had a stamina unmatched by any other man.

Duncan returned the kiss automatically, his mind racing as he watched the priestess unlace his breeches, wetting her lips in preparation.

 _Flora only wanted physical affection from me,_ he thought to himself, feeling a pair of lips wrap around the head of his shaft.  _She said that she wanted to try adult 'things' before the final battle. She never asked for anything more._

He let out a soft groan of pleasure, tilting his head back as the priestess suckled on the fleshy underside of his soft cock.

_The lass could be trying what I've shown her with Alistair at this very moment. Perhaps they're curled together on a bedroll with her shirt pulled up around those pert little breasts. Maybe he's letting her play with his cock for the first time._

_Ha, unlikely._

Duncan reached down and gave the woman's full breast a caress; rolling the dark nipple between finger and thumb. She let out a whimper, sucking his half-turgid length into her throat with increased vigour.

"Mm."

_I wonder how my cock would look between Flora's full, pouting lips. The girl has got such a sensuous and sulking mouth; it's begging for something to fill it. I let her kiss the tip of it last night because she wanted to taste me. She'd only lapped at it for a few seconds before I rolled her onto her back and sheathed myself in a single thrust._

The Warden-Commander let out a groan, prompted both by his recollections and by the priestess' finger working its way inside his ass. He now had an impressive cockstand; the priestess was almost salivating at the prospect of taking the broad meatiness between her legs.

"Commander, I've never seen you so hard, so quick," she breathed, eyes wide.

 _I was picturing my young recruit kneeling before me,_ Duncan thought, guiltily.  _Imagining my cock sliding into that sexy, eager mouth._

_Fuck, I'm hard. And this isn't fair._

"Sorry, Petra," he said softly and not unkindly, reaching down to touch the woman's fading blonde head. "I think it's best that you leave."

The priestess looked at him as though he had grown a third head; her brow creasing with almost comedic indignation.

"You want me to  _leave?"_ she repeated, a note of outrage and perplexion ringing through the words.

Duncan nodded, feeling a sting of guilt.

_It's not fair on this woman to take her while thinking of another. I might be a lot of things, but I'm not that cruel._

"I'm sorry," he said, quiet and rueful. "Please don't believe that it's anything to do with you."

The priestess left in a whirl of Chantry robes and chagrin, muttering darkly under her breath. Duncan watched her go with mingled emotion, yet ultimately he knew that he had made the correct decision.

 _It doesn't mean that I'm going to do aught else,_ he thought determinedly to himself, lowering himself to his campbed and hearing the wood creaking beneath him.  _This would be the natural opportunity for me to distance myself from her; we're back at Ostagar and the proper distance between commander and recruit has been restored._

 

For the next hour, the Commander of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden lay atop the blankets, pleasuring himself with an absentminded hand as he stared into the gloom of the griffon-emblazoned armour, hanging on the stand opposite, cast an odd, elongated shape across the rush matting. It almost seemed as though someone else was in the tent with him; watching in disapproval as Duncan stroked his cock to the memory of his recruit writhing beneath him on the bedroll.

_It was ecstasy to watch that beautiful, solemn face come undone. I'll never forget the sound she made when I first began to move within her._

As hot seed spilled over his trembling fingers, the Warden-Commander made up his mind. Tucking himself back into his trousers, he rose to his feet and crossed to the entrance of the tent; pulling aside the canvas flap. The air was cool and crisp; the stars finally emerging from behind the veil of evening cloud. The old Tevinter fortress of Ostagar was bathed in a soft, silvery light that loaned it an odd sort of beauty.

"Warden-Commander?"

Two soldiers customarily maintained a post outside Duncan's tent. This was not for defence purposes, since the greying Rivaini was more than capable of protecting himself; but in case he needed to send a message or have an errand run.

_Or, someone brought to the tent._

"Do you know my new recruit?" Duncan asked, abruptly. "The red-headed lass."

Both soldiers nodded; the arrival of a comely young woman at Ostagar had caused a minor consternation amongst the Royal troops. Even the news that she was a  _mage_ had not diminished their excitement by much.

"Fetch her here," the Warden-Commander continued abruptly, not quite meeting either soldier in the eye.

For a moment, he had contemplated conjuring a story from the ether – a fresh injury from the expedition, or the ache of an old wound – to justify summoning Flora to his tent; but ultimately decided not to bother.

_Neither of them are stupid. But they are discreet. I won't insult their intelligence by crafting some weak, easily disproven lie._

"But… if she seems reluctant," he added, with a reflexive pang of guilt. "Leave her be."

One of the soldiers gave a small, neutral nod of acquiescence, striding off across the cobbles in the direction of the recruit tents. Duncan watched the man until he had descended to the lower courtyard, then let the canvas entrance flap drop.

After lighting several more candles from the lantern on the dresser, he poured himself an ale. To Duncan's confusion and mild perplexion, he could feel his heartbeat throbbing hard against his ribcage; as full of nervous anticipation as a virgin hovering on the doorstep of a brothel.

 _Ridiculous,_ the Rivaini thought, fiercely.  _You've had women since you were an adolescent. Calm down._

_What's so different about this lass, anyway? You've had virgins before, you've had women almost as young. You've had mages before; plenty of them._

Duncan paced the length of the tent, treading indentations into the rush matting; berating himself for his inability to wait still and calm.

_Calm down. You're acting like some giddy adolescent._

He took another gulp of ale, marvelling at how he could now taste the nuances of the liquid; the barley, hops and notes of amber. Reclaiming a full spectrum of taste had been the consequence of prolonged contact with his recruit's wondrous mouth.

_What if she isn't coming?_

The realisation struck the commander like a flagon of ice-water dropped down the back of his neck.

_She came to you because she wanted to experience lovemaking. Now you've made love to her; she no longer requires your company._

Before his mind could travel further down this unwelcome route, Duncan heard the canvas entrance flap lift; a low voice filtering through the shadows.

"Commander, the mage girl is here."

Duncan turned around as swiftly as though he had felt the tug of the Darkspawn in the back of his mind.

His 'mage girl' was standing in a pool of candlelight near the entrance to the tent; clad in the eclectic clothing of someone suddenly summoned out into a chilly autumn night. She was clad in a linen nightgown that fell to her knees, a pair of woollen socks hastily pulled onto her feet. A woollen blanket embroidered with loll-tongued Mabari was draped around her upper body. Her rich red hair hung loose against her shoulders; still half-damp from the bath.

Yet it was Flora's face that Duncan was more concerned with; the lovely, high-cheekboned features which were so perpetually solemn. If there had been a shred of reluctance there, he would have sent her back to her tent without hesitation.

Instead, Flora shot him a shy, delighted smile; a blush blossoming on her cheeks even as she dropped her gaze to her wool covered toes.

"I thought you weren't going to invite me," she breathed, peering up at him through her eyelashes. "I was about to go to sleep."

A low groan escaped Duncan's throat, and he crossed the matting in three strides, taking her in his arms and ducking his head. They kissed like lovers parted for a year, desperate and full of need; their mouths working hungrily together as tongues and lips writhed in lust-fuelled desire. Duncan could vaguely hear himself panting like a Mabari; his blood running hot as Antivan igneous oil, his cock throbbing painfully in his trousers.

They tried to part twice. Each time, one would catch the eye of the other as they drew back - taking in the huge, lust-filled pupils and desirous gaze – and then they would somehow be kissing devotedly once again.

Finally, Duncan pulled back and summoned all his restraint; forcing himself to resist the allure of his recruit's full, parted lips.

"My sweet comb of honey," he murmured thickly, tasting the prickling residue of her magic on his tongue. " _I_  thought that you weren't going to come."

"I'd always come for you," Flora said without thinking, then flushed crimson as she realised what she had inadvertently suggested.

"That's what I was hoping,  _amira,"_ Duncan replied _,_ lowering his mouth to hers once again. "You little beauty."

This time, the kisses were softer and more affectionate; a tender joining and parting of lips that left both of them dizzy and breathless. To save himself from bending his neck, Duncan had hoisted Flora on top of his desk; his cock already hard and straining against his sleep-trousers.

The blanket had fallen to the floor; her nipples stood out stiff against the linen nightgown with equal excitement. The materiel had been rucked up around her waist as she sat on the elevated wooden surface; high enough to reveal her nakedness beneath.

"Mm," Duncan breathed greedily, easing Flora back onto her elbows and parting her bare knees. "What have we here,  _qalbi?"_


	16. The Warden-Commander is Preoccupied

Flora let out an incoherent squeak, peering over the bundled hem of her nightgown. Her mentor's strong palms were spread over her knees, holding her legs open as he gazed unashamedly between them. His rich Rivaini eyes had deepened further with desire; hooded and intensely focused.

Duncan smiled distractedly at the sound that emerged from her throat, ducking his head to kiss one knee and then the other.

"Does Alistair know that you sleep without smallclothes on?" he murmured, returning his gaze to the apex of her thighs. "That he rests within touching distance of this sweet, bare little cunt? You're such a northerner, sweetheart. "

Flora let out another strangled sound, feeling her cheeks deepen into a rich flush. The Warden-Commander smiled at her shyness, reaching forward to press a finger against her glistening folds. It came away with a slick, sucking noise, and a rumble of approval sounded deep in his throat.

"So wet just from being kissed," he murmured, admiringly. "Good girl. Now close your eyes and keep your legs spread wide for me,  _amira."_

Flora did as she was told, her skin prickling in anticipation. The best moment, she felt her commander's tongue work it's way between her folds; kneading bodily against her pearl of pleasure.

A moan of ragged delight tore from her throat and she lifted her hips, offering herself wantonly for him to feast upon. He readily accepted the invitation, gripping her buttocks and lowering his hungry mouth to her eager folds.

Meanwhile, the general of the Royal Army was making his own way through the shadows to the Warden-Commander's tent. Loghain Mac Tir had been brooding on Duncan's decision to partner the Cousland mage with the Theirin bastard. With a daughter sat precariously on the throne at Cailan's side, the general was taking no chances.

 _And he claims that the Wardens do not meddle in politics,_ Loghain thought furiously, quickening his pace as he descended to the lower courtyard.  _He's practically match-made them both._

The Warden-Commander's tent lay some distance apart from the rest of the senior wardens' accommodation, and further still from the large communal sleeping quarters of the recruits. It was marked by a banner bearing the silver griffon that represented their order.

Two yawning soldiers were posted on sentry duty at the canvas entrance, at either side of the short passage that led into the main body of the tent. As Loghain strode towards them, they both straightened in alarm; eyes widening.

"General Mac Tir," croaked the braver of the two, willing his voice not to quaver. "The Warden-Commander is… is  _preoccupied_ at the moment."

"Preoccupied?" demanded Loghain, brushing their protests aside. " _With what?"_

"He – he has some female company," continued the soldier, weakly.

Loghain's spies had reported seeing the Chantry sister orally pleasuring the leader of the Wardens behind a pillar only a week prior so this was not news to him.

"Ah," replied the general drily, with a derisive snort. "Of course, our pious priestess. Well, we had best interrupt matters before she has an  _excessive_ number of sins to confess."

"No- " began the soldier but Loghain had already grown bored. The teyrn strode forwards, tugging aside the canvas entrance flap and ducking his way inside the tent.

It took the teyrn several moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. As he blinked, he became aware of a low, desperate whimpering; the unmistakable sound of a female being expertly stimulated.

The Warden-Commander was crouched before the writing desk with his head nestled between a pair of slender, creamy thighs. As Loghain watched, the commander began to administer a series of deep, lingering licks; his tongue lapping hungrily at his partner's flushed mound.

 _Those aren't the legs of a middle-aged priestess,_ Loghain thought, dazedly.  _Also, what kind of Rivaini trick is this?_

Duncan lifted his head for a moment to take a deep, heady breath; leaning back far enough for Loghain to take in the sight of a youthful, arousal-slick pair of folds, pert, linen covered breasts and a tangled spread of dark red hair.

 _It's the Cousland girl,_ Loghainrealised, with sudden incredulity.  _She's not bedding Alistair, she's bedding her own commander. She's not even two decades old._

_Maker's Breath, it's been a long time since you had a woman. Look at that little body._

The general felt his cock springing to life within his breeches as he gazed at his former rival's daughter; opening her legs eagerly for a man thirty years her senior.

Duncan was so absorbed in his actions that he had not noticed the canvas entrance flap being lifted. He was tracing the shape of Flora's small, swollen folds with the tip of his tongue; tasting the sweet slickness of her arousal. She was sprawled back on his desk, letters and various sheets of parchment scattered beneath her; her arms flung wantonly above her head as she raised her hips hungrily towards her commander's mouth.

When he finally turned his attention to her throbbing pearl, she let out a whine of need. Duncan gave the slick little nub a tender kiss before drawing back, his eyes searching the rest of the desk.

Before he could be spotted, Loghain made a hasty retreat; hoping that his cockstand was not too obvious through his impaired gait. Ignoring the curious gazes of the soldiers, he strode off through the gloomy courtyard; his footsteps echoing against the crumbling walls. Knowing that he would not make it back to his tent, the general ducked behind a pillar and pulled his twitching cock from his breeches. Moments later – muttering a reluctant curse under his breath - he had spilt his seed shamefully to the memory of his old rival's long-lost daughter.

Back in the tent, Duncan was enjoying teasing his whimpering young recruit. He had found the object he was seeking – an ink-pen capped with a rounded steel nub – and was now pressing the cold metal against Flora's flushed clitoris. She was gasping and squirming, making no real effort to get away as he slid the cold metal in a tantalising circle around her throbbing pearl.

"Let's try it on these," the Warden-Commander murmured huskily, lifting the pen and pressing the cold metal lid against each of her nipples in turn. "Do you like that, my little dove?"

Flora let out an incoherent squeak of acquiescence, her arousal now running down her thighs and onto the wooden surface of the desk. Duncan pressed the cold pen against her swollen nub one final time; considering his options.

_I could teach her how to pleasure me with her mouth._

_I could turn her over and fondle that pert little ass; get her used to the sensation before I claim it._

_Or I could just make love to her right now._

She made another little sound of desperation, bucking up her hips towards him. Duncan smiled down at her affectionately, patting her slick folds with his fingers to hear their wetness.

"What do you want,  _amira?_ " he murmured, softly. "Say it out loud for me."

"Y-  _you- "_

"More specific, my desert rose."

"Your – your  _cock."_

"Good girl," he crooned, taking his throbbing shaft from his trousers and positioning the leaking head against her folds. "And you shall have it, whenever you want it."

" _Please, please- "_

"Every night, if you desire it."

" _Yes!"_

Duncan took a deep breath, determined to savour every second of penetration. Slowly - gritting his teeth to stop himself from panting like a Mabari in heat – he pushed his cockhead inside her. Flora gave a little impatient wriggle on top of the desk, needing more then just the glistening, deep red bulb. Smiling to himself as he heard her whimper, Duncan began to work himself slowly inside his young recruit; until all nine broad inches were sheathed neatly within her.

The Warden-Commander leaned back and held Flora's knees apart, surveying the delicious sight of the root of his tawny cock emerging from her creamy folds, his warm, heavy sac nestled between her thighs.

"Give me a kiss,  _qalbi_ ," he murmured, salivating at the lewd spectacle of it. "I want to preserve this in my mind further."

Flora obediently propped herself up on her elbows and craned her neck forwards as best she could; her movement somewhat restricted by the thick male cock wedged inside her. Duncan leaned forward and touched his lips gently against her mouth; letting Flora taste her own earlier arousal.

As was usual between them, even a brief kiss quickly turned into a more prolonged working of lips. She wound her arms around her mentor's neck as he bent over her; the unlikely pair kissing with the ardour of newlyweds and the affection of a long-married couple. At one point, ignoring the urges of his aching cock, Duncan cradled Flora's cheek tenderly against his calloused palm. The lovers then simply  _stared_  at one another; him quietly incredulous at the depth of his uncovered feelings, her shy and delighted at the intensity in his gaze.

" _Zahra,"_ he murmured, unable to resist dropping yet another soft kiss to her full, parted Cousland lips. "I need to fuck you now, baby."

Flora settled back against the wooden surface of the desk, her cheeks flushed with anticipation.

"Please," she begged, looking up at him through her eyelashes.

A hoarse and involuntary groan escaped Duncan's throat as he began to rock himself in and out; savouring the feel of his mage hot and slick around his newly sensitive length. He withdrew almost fully each time he pulled out; addicted to the sensation of penetrating her swollen little folds and making them stretch around his girth.

"I could spend all day inside this exquisite cunt," he told her, the words emerging between heated, percussive thrusts. "You take me so well, sweetheart."

"I-  _ah – I do?"_

"Like you were made for my cock, lovely."

After a few days spent teasing climaxes from her in the Wilds, Duncan knew full-well when Flora reached her first peak. She let out a wail that must have roused half of Ostagar, bucking her hips frantically upwards to sink his cock as deeply inside her as possible. Duncan felt her cunt convulse in waves of pleasure around him; her limbs trembling and hips arching upwards.

"Did you enjoy that,  _amira?"_  he asked thickly, continuing to rock in and out of her overstimulated folds. "I love it when you come so hard for me."

Reaching down, Duncan lifted his recruit bodily onto his hips, hearing Flora's whine of dismay as his cock slipped from her.

"Don't worry, love," he assured her, nuzzling his bearded cheek against her skin. "I'm just deciding which angle to take you from next."

_I could have her on all fours like a Mabari; in true Ferelden style. Then I'd get to see that pert, tantalising little bottom._

_No, I'm not a strong enough man to resist. I'd be oiling my cock and working it inside her ass; and I want to save that delight for later._

Instead, relying on a strength granted by his tainted blood and a potency loaned from Flora's miraculous lips, Duncan leaned back against the edge of the desk and lifted her neatly onto his cock. Gripping her by the hips, he began to bounce her on his shaft; savouring the sweaty sound of their repeatedly impacting flesh.

The sight of her small breasts juddering before him eroded the Warden-Commander's self-control. He began to fuck her in earnest, only half-registering her cries of delight; focused entirely on satisfying the needs of his own frantically pulsing cock.

Once he had felt her shudder once more around him, Duncan began to chase his own climax. Flora was encouraging him onwards with broken gasps of encouragement, barely aware of the soreness of her well-used slit.

 _Careful,_ Duncan thought to himself as he felt his balls clench in preparation.  _You thought about this earlier; you can't afford to come inside her. Her body neutralises the taint._

_Spill your seed over those pretty breasts instead, or even into that lovely, wanton mouth. She'd happily take it._

Instead, Duncan lowered Flora to the desk and lifted her hips, pushing his cock deep inside her as his sac spasmed. He let out a hoarse, involuntary cry of release as he shot over a half-dozen spurts of potent seed within the walls of her cunt; keeping her hips lifted so that not a drop could seep out.

"Take it, my love," he croaked, as she obediently tilted her hips towards him. "Take it all. Good girl."

Afterwards, deliberately not thinking about his own motivations, Duncan carried his dazed, satiated recruit over to his bunk. Flora clung to him, quietly savouring the delicious ache between her thighs.

"Keep your legs closed, my sweet comb of honey," he murmured, climbing in beside her and pulling the blankets up over them both. "We don't want my seed going to waste."


	17. Flora's Miraculous Mouth

Abruptly, the Warden-Commander pushed back the covers and clambered to his feet without a word; striding across the tent towards the dresser. Taking deep gulps of chilly autumnal air to cool his heated blood, Duncan poured himself a measure of ale from the flagon placed there. He forced himself to take his time drinking it, focusing on the damp canvas wall of the tent as he sipped it with measured slowness.

_You have a role to perform here at Ostagar. This is what you've been preparing to do since you first swore the Joining oath._

There was a small part of him that hoped that Flora would be asleep by the time he turned back to the camp-bed; she had been yawning and rubbing at her eyes when he had left.

Instead, when he placed the empty flagon down on the dresser, he felt a surge of dismay to see her standing, pulling her nightshirt over her head, her boots already on her feet.

Ignoring the tiny voice of reprimand in his ear, Duncan strode across the tent; reaching out to rest his hands on her hips.

"Where are you going,  _qalbi?"_ he murmured, snaring her pale gaze with his own dark eyes. "Do you want to leave?"

Flora shook her head silently, pink flaring in roses on her cheeks.

"I thought you wanted me to leave."

Duncan reached down to lift the hem of Flora's nightshirt, sliding it up in slow inches over her body and lifting it over her head. The flush deepened on her cheeks as she stood shyly before him, dark red hair tousled and clad only in leather boots. With her high, rounded breasts and the hint of swollen folds between her thighs; she looked like an erotic illustration from an Antivan brothel's pleasure-manual.

The sight was too tantalising for Duncan to resist. Not taking his eyes from his recruit's ripe body, he took his cock from his sleeping trousers and began to tug at his stiffening length.

"Put your finger in your mouth, baby," he instructed, the rhythm of his clenched fist increasing as she obediently inserted a finger between the full, sulky lips. "Maker, you're  _so_  beautiful. Part your legs a little so I can see your pretty cunt."

From the beginning of their secretive affair, the Warden-Commander had always been focused on administering pleasure to his inexperienced young recruit. He had spent hours in foreplay devoted entirely to stimulating Flora; his tongue lapping between her legs, his fingers fondling and caressing her pert breasts. Duncan knew that she was eager to return the favour, yet had been oddly reluctant to agree. Having her kneel before him seemed to consolidate the power imbalance between them.

However in this moment, as he watched his young recruit suckle her finger with unwitting eroticism, Duncan's reservations  flew straight through the gap in the canvas wall. He smiled at her, removing his hand from his shaft so that it emerged dark and erect from his trousers.

" _Zahra_ ," he murmured, the words emerging coated with desire. "Would you like to try sucking on my cock?"

Flora dropped to her knees on the straw matting before her mentor had even finished speaking. She had wanted to try pleasuring him since spotting Duncan's deep maroon cockhead emerging from his trousers on the second night of their intimacy. Thus far, he had only permitted her to kiss the tip of it; Flora's tongue barely touching the rounded bulb before he had pushed her back onto the bedroll and entered her with a grunt of need.

Now the full length was revealed to her; nine inches of thick, olive-toned flesh that sprung in a broad column from a nest of dark, wiry curls. The fold of skin at the top was pulled back tight, revealing a glistening bulb of deep pink. His sac hung full and meaty between his thighs; and Flora could taste the scent of heady, masculine desire ripe in the air. Although she had wrapped her fingers around his thick shaft and brought him to climax on several occasions; she had never enjoyed such a close-up view of an aroused male member. It pulsed gently amidst the nest of curls; Flora had a sudden urge to climb atop him and take it inch by inch.

"What do you make of my cock, sweetheart?" Duncan asked, half amused and half aroused by her fascination. "You look at it like a mender; does it need fixing?"

Flora shot him a shy smile, unsure whether he was teasing her.

"No," she replied, her lips moving tantalisingly close to his shaft. "I… I like it."

Duncan resisted the urge to guide his cock gently into her mouth; a bead of sweat rising on his forehead. After a moment of agonising inaction, he realised that she was waiting for some sort of guidance or instruction.

"I won't tell you what to do,  _zahra_ ," he murmured, stroking his fingers tenderly through her hair. "I want you to explore it for yourself. Take your time, baby."

Yet at the first, tentative touch of Flora's tongue, Duncan almost released a burst of seed across her face. He swore under his breath and reached out a hand to steady himself on the dresser; gritting his teeth as she lapped curiously along the length of his shaft.

"Maker," he croaked, both astonished and embarrassed by his own rampart lack of self-control. "That feels so  _fucking_  good, love."

Flora licked him from root to tip until every thick inch of his strong cock was coated in her saliva. As she laved her tongue along the hard flesh, she reached up a palm and cradled his heavy sac, feeling the warmth pulse against her skin. Recalling what he liked to do to her, she slid a tentative finger further back; between his taut, acorn-dark buttocks.

A sweating Duncan hissed under his breath, letting her explore for a brief moment before intercepting her hand.

"If you keep doing that, my sweet comb of honey –  _mm, fuck- "_  he murmured, unable to stop a moan slipping from his throat as her finger continued to probe. "I'm going to come all over your pretty little breasts."

For a moment Flora was sorely tempted – it was alluring to have her strong, capable commander at the mercy of one gently inserted finger. Storing this knowledge for later, she moved her hand to the safer location of his hip; returning her attention to his straining cock.

Duncan gazed down - transfixed – as his young recruit began to press kiss after adoring kiss to his wet cockhead. He could feel beads of perspiration running down the muscled plateau of his stomach as she made love to the slick bulb of flesh with her tongue; a flush of pleasure rising to her cheeks. Every inch of his cock tingled with arousal, every nerve ending renewed by the rejuvenative properties of her tongue. For the first time in two decades, the Warden-Commander's cock was as sensitive as it had been in youth.

"Fuck," he croaked, knowing that his grunts and pleasured groans were almost definitely being overheard by the sentries and the senior Wardens in adjacent tents.  _"Mm- good girl._ Don't stop, baby."

Flora continued to lavish her attention on the swollen, purplish cockhead; kissing the first tenderly while caressing it with her fingertips. She lapped up each gleaming bead of liquid that seeped copiously from the end of his cock; tasting him on the tip of her tongue.

Finally, Duncan could take no more, his thighs tense with arousal and anticipation as he stood with his sleeping trousers down around his knees.

"Please," he entreated, in a hoarse voice that did not sound like his own. "I need to see my cock between those pretty lips."

Flora eyed her mentor's broad shaft for a moment; shyly admiring the thick, muscled column of flesh as it bobbed amidst a nest of dark curls. With a deep breath, she took him into her mouth and began to suck gently.

Duncan let out a helpless groan; coherence temporarily lost. Their canvas-walled surroundings had smeared into a background blur; the Darkspawn an inconsequential irritation. He was only aware of his shaft wedged firmly in Flora's full, eager mouth; the contrast lewd and titillating.

The sensation blossoming within the base of his cock was unlike any he had felt for the past thirty years. Every renewed nerve ending was humming with electric pleasure; he could feel every soft, nuanced lap of her tongue with excruciating clarity.

He was no longer able to even think in Common as a tangled stream of Rivaini emerged from his throat. Soon, even that became a continuous, animalistic moan as she eased him deeper into her mouth, growing more comfortable with accommodating his considerable girth.

From their position guarding the entrance to the tent, the soldiers were now in a state of indecision. They had recognised the sound of frantic rutting well enough from earlier; the subsequent kissing, caressing and pillow talk was innocuous. Now, the Warden-Commander was making a strange, ragged gasping; not dissimilar to an animal in great pain.

The two guards had conferred for a moment – the pretty little redhead they had delivered to the tent in her pyjamas seemed harmless enough, but she  _was_ a mage. If there was even a possibility of the commander being at risk; it was their duty to investigate.

With their fingers on the hilts of their blades, they eased the heavy canvas flap to one side and peered inside the candle-lit gloom.

The Warden-Commander was standing in the centre of the tent, his sleep-trousers thrust around his knees to reveal muscled olive buttocks and strong thighs. He had one hand stretched out to grip the edge of the dresser to steady himself, and a vein was visibly pulsing in his neck. His head was tipped backwards, face contorted in a paroxysm of ecstasy; a tear of sheer pleasure trickling down his greying beard.

His recruit was kneeling before him on the rush matting, entirely naked save for her rich, autumnal hair flowing down her back. Her pert little breasts quivered as she suckled ardently on her mentor's cock, her limpid eyes closed in pleasure as she took him deep into her throat. The girl's head moved back and forth as she emulated the rhythm of lovemaking with her mouth and tongue. A gleaming slickness coated the young mage's inner thighs; evidence of her own arousal. As they watched, her fingers rose to fondle the older man's warm, heavy sac; she interrupted her suckling to press a series of adoring kisses to his balls.

The senior guard, finding it difficult to move with such a painful erection, shot a glance at his counterpart. The junior had his hand lodged within his breeches and was masturbating furiously. His tongue was practically hanging from his mouth as he savoured the sight of the girl's high, creamy breasts and the hint of pink between her parted thighs.

Both Wardens were so preoccupied with each other that they didn't notice the older guard manhandle the younger from the room. Duncan knew that he was about to ejaculate; that the climax he had been fending off since the first tentative swirling of her tongue was now inevitable.

He felt his balls contract and pulse in preparation to release his come; desperate and barely coherently, he reached down to grip Flora's head in place, keeping himself sheathed to the hilt between her silky lips. A strangled cry tore through the tent as eight spurts of seed splattered against the back of his recruit's throat. Duncan felt his knees weaken beneath him and he half-staggered backwards; his cock delivering a final spray to her startled face and sweaty breasts.

Vision narrowing, Warden-Commander collapsed onto the bunk. He leaned back and gulped down mouthfuls of air; his exhalations emerging as ragged pants. His heart was racing like he had just glimpsed the Archdemon's bat-like silhouette against the pallid moon.

Even in the wake of an intensely powerful climax, Duncan could still feel throbbing veins of pleasure creeping upwards from the base of his shaft. Blinking to regain some clarity of vision, he looked down to see his young recruit eagerly lapping up every last drop of seed; her tongue caressing the heavy warmth of his sac.

"Maker's Breath," Duncan finally managed to croak. "Fuck –  _fuck, that feels good."_

After receiving a series of adoring kisses, the Warden-Commander's cock stood proudly erect once again. He lay back against the firm mattress, legs slightly parted and an expression of bliss writ raw across his features. One of his hands rested gently atop of Flora's head, guiding it up and down as she took his shaft in her eager mouth.

Duncan closed his eyes for several moments; allowing his recruit to fondle, lick and caress him as she pleased. When he opened them again Flora was straddling his thighs, her fingers wrapped firmly around the root of his cock. She was clearly trying to find the best angle to take him; little whines of frustration escaping her throat as his leaking tip slid down her folds instead of sinking between them.

Duncan reached out and lifted his recruit into the correct position, slowly lowering Flora inch by delicious inch onto his girthy cock.

"Good girl," he murmured, watching closely as a flush blossomed on her cheeks and her eyelashes fluttered in delight. "Let's teach you how to ride me."


	18. The Rivaini Tongue

Flora felt a delicious little twist of arousal at her Warden-Commander's words, a heady pulse throbbing directly between her legs. She was already straddling his hips as he lay back on the narrow bedroll; only the very root of his broad cock visible. The other eight inches of her mentor's meaty shaft were already nestled deep within his recruit's slick, eager slit.

"Don't try and move yet,  _zahra,"_ he murmured, sensing her eagerness to begin bouncing up and down inexpertly. "Relax. Get used to how my cock feels inside that sweet cunt."

Duncan lay back against the lumpen mattress, aware of his own ragged breathing and the sweat dampening the hair on his chest. He was bitterly aware that the canvas walls were growing lighter; sunrise heralded the dawn duties that he was expected to perform.

 _I want to stay here,_ he thought to himself, fiercely.  _I want to stay all day in this tent that smells of sweat and sex; in the company of this beautiful, passionate girl._

_I want to spend the day penetrating her in every possible manner, learning which angles and positions give her the most pleasure._

_I want to roll her onto her belly and oil up those pert little buttocks._

"Duncan?"

Her soft, northern shaping of his name drew Duncan's attention and he blinked to clarify his vision. Flora was still sitting patiently on his hips, a bead of sweat trickling down between her high breasts, strands of wet hair stuck in crimson contrast to her skin. Her thighs were spread wide to accommodate his girth; the base of his rich olive cock nestled beneath her soft wisps of auburn hair.

" _Qalbi,"_ the Warden-Commander murmured, reaching down to grip her hips. "Sorry, petal. I was distracted. Now – you know when I fuck you, my cock goes in, then almost comes out, over and over?"

Flora nodded, pink rising to her cheeks as she recalled his impassioned thrusts from earlier that evening. Duncan smiled up at her, sliding his fingers back to squeeze the ripe flesh of her buttocks.

"Well, that's what we want to replicate," he murmured, easing Flora's hips upwards and watching his rich brown cock emerge inch-by-inch. "Can you feel the tip still in you?

She gave a little squeak of confirmation; she could feel the thick bulb throbbing between her swollen folds. Duncan licked his lips in anticipation of the pleasure to come, adjusting the angle of his shaft as she hovered above him.

"Now let me push all the way back in," he instructed, thickly. "Make sure you take all of it.

Flora impaled herself inch by inch on his shaft; her eyes widening as she felt him throb inside her. She let out a moan, tilting her head back so that sweaty strands of hair brushed her buttocks.

Duncan was also perspiring with the effort of not losing his composure. His cock was already leaking copiously inside his young recruit; the look of disbelief and delight on Flora's face as she finished her first slow bounce almost coaxed forth a spurt of seed.

He kept his hands on her hips, guiding her through several more leisurely practice thrusts; savouring each inch of her little slit as it clung frantically to his cock.

"Mm," he murmured, hoarse with lust.

"You like that, baby?"

Flora nodded frantically, pink with pleasure.

"Tell me," the Warden-Commander instructed, his dark eyes fixing on hers. "Tell me how it feels."

"It feels… good," Flora whispered, fidgeting in her eagerness to resume the up-down rhythm on his cock. "I feel… full of you."

Duncan let out a soft groan, reaching up to position a cushion behind his neck. As his recruit squirmed about on his hips, waiting for his permission to start moving; the Warden-Commander adjusted his head and shoulders, taking his time to finding the best possible viewing angle.

 _After all_ , he reasoned to himself, admiring the contrast of his tawny cock parting her dusky pink folds.  _It's not every day that you're ridden by a nineteen year old, with the perkiest little breasts you've ever been fortunate enough to tongue._

"Alright,  _zahra,"_ he murmured, licking his lips and preparing to savour every moment. "Claim my cock as yours."

Hesitantly at first, his recruit began to rock her hips back and forth in the way he had shown her. Flora's eyes widened in startled pleasure each time that his cock sheathed itself fully within her; whimpers of delight escaping her throat. Soon, the wet sound of her arousal filled the tent; the lewd rhythmic slapping of slick flesh.

"Your little cunt is dripping for me," Duncan observed fondly, eyeing the swollen pink nub of her pearl jutting from the top of her folds. "You gorgeous creature. Don't stop, baby."

Flora had no intention of stopping. Rather, she was just getting into her stride, more confident as she grew accustomed to this particular style of lovemaking. Soon, she was bouncing away on Duncan's cock with all the energy and enthusiasm of a nineteen year old; small breasts shuddering and face contorted in sheer ecstasy at how  _good_  he felt between her legs.

" _Yes,"_ she whimpered, her sweaty hair plastered to her bare breasts. "Please – please- "

Duncan's earlier composure had been utterly broken by sheer intensity of stimulation as his recruit worked herself joyfully on his cock. He was clutching the wooden frame of the bed with both hands, his back arched and his head tilted back, lips parted in a series of ragged gasps. The Warden-Commander's fraught and complex world had contracted to the delicious tightness of his young lover's cunt; which seemed to kiss and caress his fleshy length with every deep thrust.

 _My cock was made for this girl,_ he thought incoherently, reaching forwards to tickle her swollen pearl with a practised forefinger.  _No other man could take her as well as me._

Flora's whimpers reached a new, desperate intensity as her mentor began to caress her slick, swollen bud; his fingers producing impossibly wet sounds against her saturated folds.

"Please," she begged, desperate for her orgasm. "Please, I-I need to come."

Even before she had finished speaking, she broke off and let out a wail; her entire body shuddering with the force of her climax. The contractions of tight, slick flesh around his cock was too much for the Warden-Commander to resist; decades of practice in self-restraint fallen by the wayside as he lost himself within their mutual orgasm. He felt his hips buck with the force of his expulsion of seed, and reached out to grip Flora in place atop his body.

"Maker –  _Maker-_ fuck-'"

_Let's get all my seed inside her. Don't waste a drop._

Vision contracting in the aftermath of such an overwhelming climax, Duncan slumped back onto the mattress with a hoarse and throaty groan. From the corner of his eye, he saw Flora wilting on top of him; her rich crimson hair plastered to her sweaty face and her head hanging. She looked beautiful, satiated and boneless, as though once his cock had slackened, she might topple onto the matting.

" _Qalbi,"_ he murmured throatily, stretching out his arms to guide her slump onto him. "Deep breaths, love."

Duncan could feel her heart racing; her small, sweaty breasts pressed to the hard, battle-marked muscle of his chest. He murmured in her ear in his native tongue for several minutes, stroking his fingers up and down the slender length of her back; tracing patterns from some distant, subconscious part of his memory.

 _You haven't spoken to a woman in Rivaini for decades,_ he thought to himself, idly.  _You'd thought the language lost to you, eroded by the perennial rot of the taint._

_Now, look at the words flooding back to you. Yet, certain terms come more easily: qalbi, my heart. Zahra, flower. Amira, princess._

_The lexicon of a lover. Ah, Maker – I have to start weaning her onto Alistair soon. He's her own age and far more suitable._

Flora had no idea what Duncan was murmuring about, but the language was soft and lyrical, and had a pleasing rhythm to the ear. As she settled against his chest he passed his hand over her head, cupping the back of her skull and gently thumbing the curve of her ear.

The tent was filled with the greyish light of predawn; casting a pallid filter over the contents within. Duncan held his quivering healer against his chest, reluctant to let her leave even with this herald of the day's commencement.

"Did you enjoy that, love?" he murmured, caressing her pert buttock with an idle hand. "You looked as though you did."

Flora went pink but smiled at him, biting her lower lip in acknowledgement of the truth in his statement.

"Mm, a lot."

He snared her pale, sated gaze with his own dark stare; holding her captive for several moments before smiling.

"I did too, dove. Yet there's  _one_  thing that I don't care for with that position."

"Whaa- "

As Flora's full Cousland mouth contorted itself into a question, Duncan rolled her over easily; positioning himself on top of her once more.

"That I couldn't kiss this pretty mouth as we fucked," he told her bluntly, enjoying the blush that rose to her cheeks at his lewdness. "Guide me in,  _qalbi."_

The Warden-Commander's olive buttocks were still pumping away between his recruit's creamy thighs as his secretary and two senior wardens entered for morning briefing. Reluctantly, he pulled out of his young partner and sat back against the cushions; pulling the blankets over them as he attended to necessary paperwork.

Those who had worked with Duncan for decades were used to the Rivaini's openness with his sexuality – this particular senior-warden had even shared a woman with him back in Denerim. They had interrupted him receiving oral pleasure beneath his desk on several occasions before – the commander's hawklike, handsome had won him many admirers over the years.

Yet they had never seen him with his arm around a woman in bed; nuzzling against her ear and kissing her tenderly, all quite openly before their audience. He managed to conduct a perfectly steady and rational conversation with his secretary about restocking arrows and sword-oil, while simultaneously fondling his young healer's bared breast.

"Have the Royal Army got any fletchers that would be willing to fulfil our requirements?" the Warden-Commander asked briskly, licking finger and thumb.

"Aye, they've got fletchers, but it's the latter part that's the issue," the senior-warden replied, watching the girl's pink nipple respond to her commander's caresses. "I don't know if the general would be willing to spare his resources."

Duncan let out a mildly exasperated snort, pinching Flora's nipple gently as she quivered against him.

"This petty rivalry between the Wardens and the Royal Army is ridiculous," he said, dropping his hand beneath the blanket to between her ripe thighs. "Just because Loghain can't relieve himself of some old suspicions. Will you set up a meeting with him later?"

The secretary nodded, keeping a professionally straight face even as the tell-tale sounds of slick folds being fondled filled the tent. The pretty redhead was now slumped senselessly against her mentor, a smile of bliss writ across her face as her cunt was worked by Duncan's strong, practised fingers. She made no protest as he eased her onto his lap, limp and languid as a doll.

"Schedule the meeting first for early afternoon," instructed Duncan, doing a remarkable job of keeping his voice even.

"That's when you're meant to be inspecting the outer perimeter defences," his secretary reminded the Warden-Commander, positioning a tactful pad of parchment over his throbbing erection.

"Aye, I know," replied the Rivaini commander, raising his voice over Flora's little whimper of delight as she felt his cock angle itself against her folds; sheathing in a single thrust. "Loghain will refuse the first time, and insist we meet in the evening instead. He hates the thought of being at my beck and call."

The secretary nodded, making a brief note on his parchment. It was obvious what was going on beneath the embroidered blankets – the wool could not hide the sounds nor the motions of sex, and the girl was making no attempt to stifle her moans of pleasure.

"Now, brothers," finished Duncan, his voice stern and steady even as his young lover ground herself eagerly on his lap. "I have no obligations for another half-candle. It would be  _cruel_  of me to deny this gorgeous little creature several more climaxes, wouldn't it?"

The secretary nodded, shooting an envious stare at the  _gorgeous_   _little creature_ herselfas she blissfully rocked herself on her commander's cock; oblivious to anything else.

" _Several_ more?" retorted the other senior-warden, a wry grin spreading across his careworn face. "You think you've got it in you, elder brother?"

Duncan snorted, inserting a surreptitious fingertip somewhere that made his young lover's eyes widen and beg for  _more_.

"This girl makes me feel a youth again," he replied huskily, letting her ease back against his finger until it was almost an inch inside her wrinkled pucker. "I'll see you both later."

 

The half-candle came and went, and still the Warden-Commander could not bring himself to dismiss his lovely recruit. The morning rhythms of Ostagar sprung up around them – the dawn patrols returning, smells of sizzling eggs drifting through the air from the mess area, muffled exchanges of banal conversation – and he could not bear to release her from his embrace.

Flora was full-lipped and dreamy-eyed in his arms, dazed from too much sex and too many compliments breathed into her ear, though half were in Rivaini and thus indecipherable to her. Her limbs felt leaden and sluggish, she was deliciously sore between her legs and her hair was an irredeemable tangle of dark red knots.

Finally – after listening to a conversation through the canvas between an irate Templar and a Chantry sister – Flora decided that enough was enough. She kicked the blanket off with a foot and made to roll out of the camp bed. Unfortunately, her lust-sated body was not especially cooperative, and she ended up sprawling face-first onto the rush matting.

Duncan, who had been dozing, was awoken by the thud. Opening his eyes, he rolled over and propped himself up on an elbow, gazing down at his naked lover as she lay inelegantly on the floor.

"Flora?"

"I need to go," Flora mumbled into the matting, tasting blood in her mouth from where she had bitten her lip as she fell.

Clambering to her feet, she licked her sore lip, feeling the prickle of her strange magic in the wake of her tongue; healing the small cut.

"Alistair will be wondering where I-  _aah!"_

A strong olive arm had wrapped around her waist, pulling her back down into the tangle of blankets on the bed. Now Flora was sprawled on her back on the mattress, gazing up at her mentor's bearded, ascetic face as he stared down at her.

"Who says you need to go,  _qalbi_?" Duncan murmured, tracing the line of her jaw with his finger. "You won't get into trouble. The only person at Ostagar who could reprimand you is  _me."_

Flora smiled shyly at him, a pink flush rising to colour her cheeks as he bent to kiss each in turn.

"Alistair will be worried," she repeated, earnestly. "And I need to wash. And break my fast."

As if on cue, her stomach gave a rumble. Duncan's mouth wandered downwards between her breasts; his lips pressing a heated brand into her skin. It was not easy for him to manoeuvre himself above her – the campbed was narrow and only designed for one – but he was a man fully focused on his goal.

"Aren't you satiated?" he murmured directly to Flora's stomach, caressing her hipbone. "Haven't I given you enough of myself already?"

"Well, I think it wants porridge," Flora replied solemnly, his lewd implication going over her head.

Finally, a short while later, Duncan's young mage had escaped his desirous clutches; retrieving her nightshirt and boots, and ducking her way out of the tent. He was left with the scent and heat of her body still clinging to his, a hollow in the mattress beside him and an odd combination of thoughts swirling within his skull.

 _I can't get into the habit of mornings spent in bed,_ he thought to himself, ruefully.  _Which will be hard, because my little healer is addictive company._

_But I have to focus on my task here. The defence of Ostagar and the defeat of the Blight._

_And if the Archdemon manifests itself, I know what I must do. There's no future for me and this sweet peach of a girl._

_No, I have to start guiding her into Alistair's arms, instead. She likes him, so it shouldn't be too difficult._

_I'll start advising her on how to seduce him tonight._


	19. On the Training Ground

The rest of Duncan's morning was taken up by usual routine activity – a report from the scouts on Darkspawn movement in the wooded valley below Ostagar; an inspection of the siege weaponry set up by the dwarves around the crumbling Tevinter parapets; an excruciatingly tedious meeting with Cailan that dragged on for what felt like hours. The king – for a third time – insisted that they did not need to summon the assistance of the mages, dwarves and elves. He was certain that the Royal Army – with himself and the Grey Wardens at their head – would destroy the Darkspawn horde without fail.

 _After all,_ the king had reminded Duncan jovially as the Warden-Commander rose to leave the tent, grinding his teeth in frustration.  _Did my father not defeat the legions of Orlais with men alone? He didn't need to depend on others to bring about victory._

Duncan had let out a noncommittal grunt that could not quite disguise his inner derision.

 _You mean, you don't want to share 'your' victory with others,_ the Rivaini commander thought grimly as he stepped out into a murky afternoon rainshower.  _You don't just want the lion's share of the glory, you want to claim the scavenger's scraps and the bleached bones too._

_Ah, I'll never be accustomed to this damned Fereldan drizzle. In Rivain, probably due to some strange atmospheric confluence, the temperature barely fluctuates throughout the year. It's always dry and arid, the heat prickling at the back of your throat like a stale poison._

Ostagar, despite being originally a Tevinter stucture, had been augmented and extended in every age since. It sprawled over several levels with little logic or planning; a maze of interconnected courtyards, column-lined squares and crumbling stairways. Walkways and promenades jutted out at odd angles, facing in whichever direction the prevailing foe of the time originated. It was ugly yet unquestionably intimidating, a centuries-old decrepit feat of engineering that clung to a cleft in the Southron Hills like a hermit crab.

The Warden-Commander descended from the upper courtyard, trailing secretaries and messengers while thoroughly preoccupied with his own thoughts. Due to the unconventional and impractical layout of the fortress, whatever one's starting point, it inevitably took a long time to reach one's destination. He crossed several tent-filled courtyards, passing the temporary Chantry set up for the more devout of the troops. As the secretaries and messengers received a terse response or grunt of confirmation, they dropped away one-by-one; until the Rivaini was striding alone through the ruins of the old fortress.

Duncan was just about to cross the drawbridge leading to the grassy slopes where the Wardens drilled, when – for the first time since leaving Cailan's tent – something properly caught his attention. The smell of roasting meat, emanating from the mess tent as the cooks prepared to feed several thousand men, drifted past on a nearby breeze. Duncan's nostrils flared and he stopped in his tracks; abrupt as though somebody had physically grabbed his arm.

_Roast beef. And what are those herbs?_

_Parsley. Parsley and thyme. Perhaps a bit of sage. Nothing special; most of those can be found growing in the valley below._

_Maker, it's been years since I could distinguish the seasoning on meat. It's been years since I could even taste anything other than a bland, vague fleshiness._

Duncan had been mildly successful at suppressing thoughts of his young healed throughout the morning, but now they returned with a vengeance. Flora's pale, earnest face rose to the forefront of his mind; the solemnity of her expression in stark contrast with the full-lipped beauty of her features.

_The girl was sprawled warm and languid in my arms only hours ago, her naked breasts pressed against my breast. I must have taken her a half-dozen times last night, the poor creature was cross-eyed by the time she left._

_I'm surprised she could walk. I didn't hold back._

Duncan put her face firmly from his mind –  _distractions_ – and continued on his way.

It took another ten minutes for the Warden-Commander to reach the grassy plain where the ranks of the Order drilled. Located outside the crumbling walls of the fortress, it was not an ideal place to practice due to the sloping angle of the land; but since Ostagar was located at the head of a steep cleft in the hills, there was no conveniently flat expanse of land to be found.

Despite the difficulty presented by the contour of the land, Grey Wardens were not in the habit of complaining. They had set up weapons' racks and training dummies as best they could on the slope; a range created for bowmen at the far end of the field. By nature of their order, combat practice tended to be a less formal affair than the regimented drilling of the Royal Army on the next field.

Several dozen Wardens were sparring with each other, with spectators offering commentary and unhelpful advice from the sidelines. A number of insults were being hurled through the air; most light-hearted and casual. Other Wardens were attacking training dummies with taint-fuelled ferocity, their blades making deep grooves in their hapless wooden foes. It looked chaotic but purposeful, and Duncan felt a surge of pride as he gazed out over the men of his Order.

_And my new girl._

Two figures were separate from the others, situated on the side of the field. Alistair was often excluded from the ranks based on spite; the others believed that Duncan showed unfair favouritism towards the handsome, untested young warrior.

 _True,_ the Warden-Commander acknowledged to himself.  _But his heritage makes him essential, and besides, I owe it to Maric to keep him safe. And to his mother._

_We were all friends once, a long time ago._

The other Wardens had shown an initial flurry of interest in Flora, whose beauty was entirely incidental – it was enough that she was  _female._ However _,_ a combination of her position as a mage, her grave-faced solemnity and her northern stoicism – which came across as coldness – served well enough to dissuade them. Ironically enough, their avoidance of Flora was consolidated by Duncan, who had informed them bluntly that anybody attempting to lure the naïve young mage into their tent would lose a ball in the process.

_And now I'm guilty of the same. In defence of my balls, though, she did come to me first._

"This looks like chaos, Warden-Commander."

Duncan did not bother to try and muffle the weary sigh that followed, nor did he need to turn around to identify the owner of the voice. The General's disapproving presence prickled at the back of Duncan's neck like heat-rash. It was common knowledge that Loghain Mac Tir – who preferred a meticulous and formal drill – disapproved of the Wardens' more lax training routine.

Now, Loghain's eyes swept across the perceived disarray, nostrils flaring as he stood beside the Warden-Commander. He wore his customary plain silverite armour, lacking any form of external ornamentation save for an engraved Gwaren crest on the breastplate; greying hair caught back at the nape of his neck.

"How do you make any sense of this disarray?" the teyrn asked bluntly, the north shaping each word as it emerged. Despite his seat being located in the south of the country, the man was originally from a village near the northern coast; not too far from Flora's own inglorious home of Herring.

"Chaotic as it may seem," Duncan replied evenly, having learnt to resist Loghain's baiting a long time ago. "I pity the Darkspawn that meets any of these soldiers on the field. I don't want to blunt their raw strength through excessive routine."

Loghain let out a grunt, watching a slender elf demolish a training dummy twice his breadth with a sword that stood nearly his own height.

"Always the maverick," he commented sardonically after a moment, his eyes settling on the two figures isolated on one side.

Duncan did not rise to the comment, following the teyrn's gaze. Alistair was methodically taking apart a wooden opponent, his Templar training evident in the precision of his moves. Ironically, this measured and formulaic approach to combat was Loghain's preferred style of fighting; yet Duncan knew that the teyrn would never allow himself to praise it. Flora, whose limited abilities meant that she was offensively useless, was assisting by pulling at the ropes attached to the dummy; making it swivel from side to side in a feigned attack.

"Ah, the energy of youth," Loghain murmured, also watching Flora tug away at the ropes. "I would have thought she'd have been weary this morning. You're looking a little tired around the eyes, though, Commander. A busy night?"

Duncan couldn't help but snort, leaning forward on the wooden fence and bellowing several pieces of advice to the sweating elf. Only once he had finished did he offer a response to the general, his voice low and amused.

"I thought we had an agreement to speak plainly with each other, Mac Tir."

"As you wish," Loghain retorted, bluntly. "I was under the impression that you had paired Maric's bastard with the Cousland mage for political gain, until I saw you rutting away at her last night."

Duncan hid a smile, dark eyes sweeping across his haphazard, ferocious collection of warriors.

"Aye, I suspected I'd seen you come in, though I admit, I was distracted.  _Voyeurism_ is more of an Orlesian practice though, I'm surprised that you'd engage in something so… unpatriotic."

Loghain grunted, failing to see the humour in Duncan's comment.

"I would never have taken you for cradle-snatching, Rivaini," he countered, dark eyebrows rising to his hairline. "I thought you liked your women well-seasoned, and clad in Chantry robes."

"She's of age," said Duncan, thinking,  _just._ "And she's more than willing, as I'm sure you picked up on last night."

Loghain snorted, following Duncan's gaze across the field to where Flora and Alistair were tucked away in a distant corner. As both men watched, a group of other Wardens – a dwarf, two men and an elf – broke away from the rest and headed towards the far end.

Duncan, despite himself, narrowed his eyes and stood up a little straighter. He was no illusions as to the characters of some of the men he had recruited – many of them he had liberated straight from custody. The Warden-Commander conscripted men because he recognised a certain grit lodged within their souls; a hardiness of character that would serve them well on the field. He did not pay much attention to the direction or straightness of the needle on their moral compass.

Now Duncan watched them like a hawk as they approached his protégé and his young lover, aware that Loghain's amused eyes were settled on him.

"Aren't you going to go to your mistress' aid?" the teyrn asked, snidely.

Duncan made no reply, eyes narrowed.

The Wardens were crowded around the two figures now; Flora appeared as taciturn as usual – she was not much one for conversing. Alistair was speaking, gesticulating empathetically towards the others while shaking his head.

Ignoring Loghain's comment, Duncan rounded the edge of the fence and began to cross the field; his pace steady and unhurried. The calm evenness of his gait distracted from the intensity of his dark irises, which were focused hawk-like on the corner of the field.

Just then, Flora seemed to grow tired of the arguing and back-and-forth. Patting Alistair's elbow, she stepped away from the fence; out into the main grassy area of the field. One of the men followed her, a brutal length of a figure who had once been a blacksmith before losing his temper in a drunken rage and bludgeoning a fellow tavern-goer to death.

The former blacksmith did not use swords, preferring weapons which allowed him to use his prodigious strength. He sported an axe the length of his unwilling opponent, the blade a curve of metal honed to a deadly razor's edge.

Duncan came to a halt beside Alistair just as the man retracted his ax to take the first swing. Flora stood before him in the grass, her hair half-falling loose from her braid and smudges of tiredness beneath her eyes. The contrast in their physical statures was almost comedic; she stood only at a handful of inches over five foot and was fully half his breadth.

"I told them it wasn't a good idea," Alistair immediately hissed, his eyes wide and accusatory. "He's been asking all week, Flora just got tired of it."

Duncan felt his jaw tightening as he watched; caught in a rare moment of indecision.

 _She's tired,_ he realised guiltily, looking at the dark smudges beneath her eyes.  _She's the look of someone who hasn't slept in their own bed, full-lipped and tousled._

_What if her focus fails her? Where's her staff?_

As the Warden-Commander deliberated on how to interrupt proceedings, the blacksmith let out a roar and swung his ax down with brute force; crashing through the air like an executioner's blade.

Flora did not move a muscle; not even to raise a hand. There was a billowing of the air around her; the invisible particles of ether catching the light with a sudden sheen as they formed a gleaming sheath around her body. Filmy as a blown bubble of soap, the shield manifested around her body in the span of a heartbeat.

The man's ax met the shield and there was a dissonant clang; the shield may have seemed as thin and insubstantial as glass, but it made a noise like the pealing of a Chantry bell when struck. Its wielder let out a shout of surprise and pain, dropping the ax to the grass and clutching his jarred elbow.

The blacksmith immediately launched into a stream of invective, striding off several paces and shaking out his arm furiously; mostly to hide his embarrassment. Flora shifted from foot to foot in the grass, the shield melting away into the ether like a breath of air on a cold day.

 _She didn't even flinch,_ Duncan thought to himself absentmindedly, watching his young healer closely as she stifled a yawn against her sleeve.  _I'd be fascinated to learn more about these spirits that aid her._

"Does your elbow need healing?" Flora offered the blacksmith; and was met only with a stare of barely veiled contempt. A mutter emerged from his lips, which was predominantly unintelligible but contained the word  _witch._

Duncan opened his mouth to interject, but Alistair was there first; his light-hearted tone in contrast to the hazel eyes bright with anger.

"Sorry, my sister-warden can't heal wounded pride," he retorted, the words emerging clipped and forcibly amused. "Come on, Flo."

Before he left the training grounds, Duncan called together his Wardens. Grouped together, they made an eclectic but oddly striking bunch; their silver and navy garb the only common theme between them. They listened attentively to their commander as he spoke of the impending Darkspawn assault, the latest reports from the scouts, and the king's determination that the Blight be ended within that very valley.

Such was Duncan's authoritative presence that even the men who had been rogues, vagabonds and masterless thieves were silent; their gazes fixed upon the man who had offered them an opportunity to escape whatever initial fate the Maker had intended for them.

The Warden-Commander let his dark, Rivaini eyes sweep across the faces before him. In quick succession, he took in a dwarf who had murdered a man in a bar fight, a minor noble fallen from power after a revolt by his freeholders, and a Dalish elf who had run away from his tribe to seek adventure beyond the forests.

Once he had let his gaze deliberately linger on the faces of the crowd, Duncan permitted himself to glance at the pair located to the left of the crowd. Alistair – tall, bronze-haired and handsome - stood head and shoulders above his peers; listening attentively to his commander speaking. At his side, a foot shorter, stood the girl who had been in Duncan's arms for the majority of the previous night.

 _Her mouth still look swollen from my kisses,_ Duncan thought to himself with an unexpected surge of fondness.

_Maker, she's got a pair of pretty lips. Especially when they're wrapped lovingly around my cock._

The Warden-Commander shifted from foot to foot in an attempt to subtly adjust the position of his rapidly stiffening cock. Fortunately, the cut of his armour disguised his arousal; and he was able to continue speaking in a relatively normal voice.

_Look at how the tunic clings to those high, perky tits; no wonder she doesn't use a breast-band._

_They're just the right size for me to take in my mouth._

As though she could read Duncan's thoughts, Flora raised her limpid, long-lashed gaze to meet his own heated stare. She blushed under its intensity, her cheeks blossoming in roses of pale pink. The next moment she bit her lip and shot her mentor a look of such wanton, desirous need that the Warden-Commander felt his shaft visibly twitch.


	20. A Sensual Little Creature

Duncan barely remembered finishing the speech, nor leaving the training field. The hurried journey back through the fortress passed in a blur; his blood charging though his veins in heated, urgent pulses even as his vision darkened with arousal.

The yawning soldiers posted outside the Warden-Commander's tent quickly stood up straight and saluted as he strode towards them; wordlessly shoving his way through the heavy entrance flap.

The next moment, they heard the sound of armour being unbuckled, accompanied by low cursing in Rivaini. The coarse language was interrupted with a sudden groan; soon after, they heard the unmistakable sound of a wet cock being frantically pumped in a strong fist. The intensity of the stroking increased rapidly, accompanied by a man's ragged gasps of pleasure.

Within minutes, the soldiers heard the Warden-Commander let out a strangled moan as he ejaculated; the name of his lover on his lips like a prayer.

"Who's  _'zahra'?"_ asked the junior, listening to Duncan panting unsteadily in the aftermath of climax.

"Don't know," replied the other, with a little snort. "But my cousin did the first watch, and he said a little redhead had been enjoying the commander's cock all night. Maybe it's her."

 

Later that evening, the Wardens gathered about their customary campfires in the upper ward of Ostagar; exchanging stories, drinking copious amounts of ale and sharing the dark humour that their Order was renowned for. A dozen fires blazed orange and crimson in defiance of the darkness that shrouded the ancient fortress; the shadows of men huddled about them as the Wardens sat, lounged and leaned against whatever surface was to hand.

The most prestigious campfire naturally belonged to the Warden-Commander and his senior officers; which was located at the edge of the courtyard beside a series of crumbling columns. Alistair had always been invited to sit with this particular group – another reason why his brethren resented him – and now his new sister-warden joined him at the fireside.

One of the other senior wardens was telling a story from an earlier patrol in the Wilds. A member of the Royal Army was so on edge that he had pissed himself at a stray leaf falling onto his shoulder; much to the amusement of his battle-hardened Warden companions.

Alistair joined in the laughter more to fit in with the other Wardens than because he found the story genuinely amusing. Duncan let out a snort, only half-listening, taking the occasional swig of rite wine while surreptitiously watching Flora through the flames.

His young healer was not listening to the story of the incontinent soldier. She was leaning back on her palms, loose ropes of dark red hair trailing over her shoulders, and staring in utter fascination up at the night sky.

"What's up there that's so interesting?" the Warden-Commander asked abruptly, just about restraining himself from adding  _qalbi._ "Have you spotted the Archdemon?"

Flora, who often missed out on subtleties of tone and interpreted questions literally, shot him a solemn look.

"No," she replied, thoughtfully. "I was looking at the stars. Is that  _Toth?"_

Those gathered around the fire tilted their heads upwards, squinting upwards at the stars hanging low against the soft velvet backdrop of night. The cloud of early evening had dissipated, displaying the celestial firmament in full, wondrous clarity.

"Aye, lass," confirmed one of the senior wardens, raising a gloved finger to trace the constellation's outline. "See, there's the tail. Named after the progenitor of the Third Blight."

Before a rapid fall from grace, this senior warden had been a scholar of some renown; which allowed him to use words like  _progenitor_  with familiarity and confidence. Flora, on the other hand, had no formal education. She had been constantly expelled from Circle classrooms for her perceived laziness and ignorance; since she was illiterate in both the magical and the traditional sense.

Having no idea what  _progenitor_ meant, Flora could add nothing more to the conversation. Instead, she offered a vague smile and decided to refill her water-pouch at one of the standing kegs.

Duncan watched her scramble inelegantly to her feet, using Alistair's shoulder to push herself upwards. Clutching her water-pouch, she wandered off towards the dense shadow of the columns; in her wake, Alistair swivelled to watch her go.

"Flo, do you need a lantern?"

Flora shook her head, lifting her hand. Pale, shifting light clung to her fingers, casting a mellow glow across the ancient flagstones.

"I'll be fine," she replied, as particles of gleaming energy diffused into the air around her. "Thank you."

Duncan waited for a full two minutes, counting the seconds out laboriously as he took methodical gulps of ritewine. Two of the senior wardens struck up a conversation about a small Darkspawn nest they had cleared out earlier that week. Alistair was occupied inspecting a whetstone, turning it from side to side in the firelight.

After the two minutes had passed, the Warden-Commander rose to his feet; wondering at the diminished ache in his bones. He offered no excuse for his departure – after all, he owed no explanation for his actions to anyone present – but simply took his leave.

Less than sixty seconds later, he caught sight of the object of his desires; wandering back through the shadowed columns. The mellow glow still radiated from her fingers, and she was humming tunelessly in her soft, slightly throaty northern tones.

Duncan strode towards his young mender, stopping just short to gaze down at her; his dark eyes focused as a hawk's.

_Maker, she's a sensual little creature. Full-lipped, pink-cheeked. That hair looks like she's been freshly tumbled; though I know it's just messy._

Flora let the waterpouch drop to the flagstones, and reached up to touch the side of his face, her thumb tracing the ascetic, bearded line of his jaw. The intensity of his gaze brought a blush to her cheeks, and she peered up at him through her eyelashes.

"I missed you," she confessed, and the Warden-Commander let out a soft, helpless groan; reaching out for her.

Moments later they were in each other's arms, kissing desperately as though they had been parted for a year. Their mouths worked frantic and desirous together, tongues wrestling in urgent, mutual need. At some point he had pushed her up against a nearby pillar with her legs wrapped around his waist; small gasps escaping her throat as he demanded the air from her lungs.

Gradually, as the initial burst of excitement at being reunited passed, the kisses became tender and more lingering. Their lips moved softly, almost lovingly; no less passionate but with genuine affection lacing the desire.

" _Qalbi,"_ murmured Duncan, reaching up to stroke a thumb around her hairline. "I need to find an excuse for you to stay with me all day. Your absence felt like a hollow in the air at my side."

Flora blushed in shy delight, eagerly receiving several more adoring kisses once this had been confessed. She wound her arms more tightly around his neck, feeling the rough stone of the pillar at her back. They were dangerously close to the campfire – the orange glow of the flames crept towards their feet, and they could hear the soft exchange of conversation beneath the crackling of smouldering wood.

"I thought about you a lot," she confessed, tilting her head as he nuzzled his face hungrily into her neck. "I wanted to kiss you on the training ground earlier."

"As did I, love," Duncan murmured affectionately, before remembering that he was supposed to be emotionally distancing himself from his sweet young recruit. "But… I also wanted to take down your breeches and give you a nice, slow fuck over the fence. Show Alistair how it's done."

Flora blushed, but there was a flicker of excitement to her shyness; a prickle of heat rising to her collarbone. The sharp-eyed Duncan caught it, a grin curving the corner of his mouth.

"Would that turn you on, baby?" he asked, voice thickening. "Letting Alistair watch?"

Without waiting for her to respond, Duncan reached a hand down the front of her breeches, his fingers sliding over her stomach and through the soft wisps of pubic hair. When they reached her plump folds, he inhaled involuntarily at how slick and malleable they were; her excitement palpable. Her pearl was swollen, a bud of hard arousal amidst the yielding softness. The wet sound that his fingers made when they moved was almost obscenely erotic; as was the desperate whine that emerged from her lips.

" _Zahra,_ this honeyed little cunt is dripping," Duncan commented, his breaths now coming ragged and urgent. "I need to get you on my cock."

She nodded, wordless and desperate.

The Warden-Commander turned his young recruit in his arms, bending her over until she was clinging to the pillar. Slowly, savouring the sight, he drew her breeches around her thighs; sliding them down in inches to reveal her ripe, peachy buttocks. Since she was already bent over in readiness, the Rivaini enjoyed a view of both her wrinkled pucker and her swollen folds. The delicate pinprick of her ass looked crudely inviting, and for a moment Duncan was tempted to duck his head and start tonguing it. He imagined how she would react, a cry of surprise, quickly followed by whines of embarrassed, slightly shameful pleasure.

 _Another night,_ he promised himself, earnestly.  _When I've got the oils and time to prepare her ass for my cock._

Instead, he satisfied himself by stroking the wrinkled pucker with a finger, letting the tip nudge just inside the entrance. She let out a soft whimper of need, bucking her hips upwards towards his probing touch.

"Patience,  _zahra,"_ he murmured, unbuckling his belt to free his own dripping shaft. "And we must be quiet,  _hm?"_

Flora braced herself against the pillar, her fingers clinging to the stone as she felt her mentor angle his cock near the base of her folds. Very carefully, Duncan worked the plump, raw pink bulb of his cockhead inside her, keeping one hand on the small of her back to keep her bent forwards.

"Good girl," he murmured, hearing her whimper. "Now,  _ssh, ssh_ – nice and quiet."

Although they were shrouded in shadows and hidden behind a crumbling pillar, they were still only a dozen yards away from the campfire belonging to the senior wardens. They were close enough for Flora to hear the distinctive scraping of Alistair's whetstone against his blade; her brother-warden blissfully unaware that his new companion was currently being bent over by their commander only yards away.

Slowly, savouring inch by slow inch, Duncan slid his girthy shaft inside his young healer; a smile of sheer, almost dreamy pleasure spreading across his face as he sunk in her to the root. Flora swivelled her head as far as she was able, he leaned forwards and the pair shared a succession of tender, lingering kisses.

Once their mouths had parted he began to move within her, taking her in the Mabari style that many Fereldan girls seemed to enjoy. Duncan fucked deep into her with each forceful thrust, barely registering the chilly night breeze against his exposed buttocks.

Flora braced herself against the pillar, eyes wide as strangled gasps of pleasure escaped her throat. Her mentor had never bent her over before, but it allowed his cock to penetrate her more deeply. There was also something shamefully arousing about prostrating herself before him; buttocks slightly parted and both of her entrances completely at his mercy. At one point he had lined up his cockhead against her ass and she – drunk with lust – had shamelessly rubbed herself against him in naked invitation. Although he had just about managed to resist, Flora knew that, one night soon, her commander would oil himself up and initiate her into this most decadent of pleasures.

Duncan realised that his young partner was moaning with increasing arousal, forgetting the need to be quiet. Realising that he needed to be quick, the Warden-Commander hunched himself over

his recruit and began to hump her like a Mabari in heat; their sweaty bodies moving frantically together in the shadows. It was a hard rut that sacrificed technique for sheer speed and intensity; and Flora loved every second of it. Within minutes, she had climaxed so hard that her legs went limp beneath her, her face frozen in silent ecstasy.

 _Pull out,_ a fragment of Duncan's conscious mind warned him.  _Spend your seed over her buttocks, or onto that sweet little pucker._

Instead, the Warden-Commander gripped Flora by the hips and held her in place as he shot off spurt after spurt of seed; just about managing to bite back his hoarse shout of pleasure.

Meanwhile, twenty yards away beside the campfire, conversation had also taken a more salubrious turn. The senior wardens were well aware that their commander was somewhere nearby, rutting furtively in the darkness with his eye-catching young mender. They had already made excuses to one of Cailan's messengers as to the Warden-Commander's preoccupation. One of their number had gone to refill their ale, and glimpsed two figures rutting frantically against a pillar.

Thus inspired, the conversation at the campfire had turned to partners they'd had in the past. One dwarf spoke fondly of a pair of sisters he'd become acquainted with in Highever, while another recalled a slender elven youth with a talented tongue from Denerim. Alistair had listened to these stories with an increasing flush on his cheeks, a mixture of embarrassment and envy mingling in his stomach.

"Alistair, son," commented one man kindly after a few minutes. "We need to get you a woman. You can't go into battle still a virgin."

"Aye," agreed the dwarf, between gulps of ale. "You've got quite the longsword between your legs, it would be a shame not to sheath it."

Alistair blushed, feeling his 'longsword' give a flicker of interest.

"What's wrong with going into battle without… without having lain with anyone?" he protested instead, defiant. "It's not as if it affects your performance. I'd trust Flo with my life in battle, and she's a virgin."

There was a soft chuckle in response; one senior warden shook their head wryly.

Alistair blinked, looking from one to the other.

"You – you think she had sex in the Circle?" he asked, slightly unsteadily. A barrage of images was flooding his mind; their subject content lewd but oddly arousing.

_Flora and an apprentice sneaking off into an empty classroom to rut on a desk._

_Two figures moving beneath the blankets of a bunk in a communal dormitory._

_His sister-warden kneeling behind a bookcase, eagerly parting her lips to receive Alistair's-_

"I don't know about in the Circle," replied one of the senior wardens, snorting. "But our lovely new mender has been parting her legs on a nightly basis. Which you could take a lesson from, lad. She's living life to the full while she can."

"And  _getting_ filled while she's at it," commended the dwarf, with a rough chuckle.

Alistair shifted on the spot, his breeches suddenly uncomfortably tight. Hoping that the flush had not extended beyond his collar, he cleared his throat; ashamed of his own vicarious excitement.

"I –  _who?_  Who is she… who is she lying with?"

The senior Wardens glanced at one another through the inconstant flames of the campfire. They were perfectly aware that – in the darkness, only a dozen yards away – their own Warden-Commander was eagerly rutting his enthusiastic young mender.

"An older man," replied one of them at last, deliberately vague. "An important one."

Alistair blinked, his mind running through the possibilities. Cailan was the most obvious choice – although he was only in his mid-twenties, his desire for Flora had been brewing for weeks.

 _Could it be Loghain?_ he thought, suddenly.  _He was staring at her on the training ground earlier. He's northern, like her. They both hate pretension._

To his surprise, Alistair found it relatively easy to picture Loghain and Flora in bed together; the man's dour cynicism momentarily silenced as he focused instead on the girl gasping beneath him.

_It can't be him. He's always rude to her, unless that's just a front to divert attention._

He felt an odd mixture of envy and excitement twisting his gut; his mouth suddenly very dry.

Flora returned to the campfire a few minutes later, her hair rumpled and her breeches fastened at the waist. She had the shy, pleased satisfaction of someone who had just climaxed, her lips swollen from being kissed too forcefully. The senior wardens shared knowing glances, but made no comment.

Alistair did not decipher the meaning of her disheveled appearance; but he could not help but stare at her regardless. There was a maturity that accompanied his gaze now; an awareness that his sweet, amiable young sister-warden was also a woman who thoroughly enjoyed sex, and was sneaking out of the tent to  _have_ sex on a regular basis.

Flora smiled at him, then reached out impulsively to pat his thigh.

"I think we're going on an expedition into the Wilds tomorrow," she breathed, rolling her eyes with melodrama to hide her hoarse voice and flushed cheeks. "Apparently there are two new recruits who need to be traumatised with their first Darkspawn."

Alistair swallowed, forced himself to nod.

"Sounds good, Flo."


	21. A Brief Interlude With Brother-Warden

Several hours later, Flora let her brother-warden glimpse her naked breast for the first time. They were in their usual gloomy corner of the dormitory tent, with two dozen other Wardens snoring on their bedrolls a short distance away. It was a relatively mild and moonlit night; a soft drizzle pattered away against the tent roof of the canvas; sufficiently disguising the rustling of clothing as Flora surreptitiously unbuttoned her shirt.

This sly act of teasing had been Duncan's idea – her mentor had detected Flora's shy desire for her fellow recruit, and had decided to take advantage of it in an effort to nip his own distracting feelings in the bud. Flora had been more than willing, having nursed several odd cravings for Alistair for several weeks. She had not realised that these were actually manifestations of  _lust_ until her glorious sexual awakening with Duncan the previous week. Now, Flora wanted her friend to experience the same adult pleasures that she enjoyed on a nightly basis in their commander's arms.

To this end, she had unbuttoned her shirt surreptitiously, relying on the rain to disguise the sound of her swift fingers. A pulse of nervous excitement throbbed between her thighs as she felt the gentle chill of an autumn night against her naked flesh. With one final glance around at the other Wardens – who all appeared to be sleeping soundly – she rolled over in an semblance of normal tossing and turning.

For a few moments, there was nothing but silence. Flora suddenly grew afraid that Alistair had gone to sleep – she had heard him take a gulp of ale only minutes earlier, but it didn't take long for her friend to slip through the Veil.

Then, she heard a slightly unsteady inhalation; a strangled intake of air. Grateful for the shadows and her long eyelashes, Flora peered out through them; careful to keep her own breathing steady.

Alistair's handsome face was clearly discernible, silvered by the shafts of moonlight. He was staring, transfixed, at her naked breast; the pert, creamy swell topped with a delicious pink nipple, sweet and inviting as a raspberry. A flush had risen to his cheeks; he appeared mesmerised by this first glimpse of a bare breast since spying on serving-maids in the washroom at Redcliffe Castle as a boy.

For several minutes, Alistair did nothing but stare at her breast, committing every ripe inch to memory. Flora could see the beads of sweat rising to his forehead, a lump swallowed in his throat as he thought on what to do.

Then, as though making up his mind, he reached out with a determined hand – towards the edge of her shirt, as though to close it. As he reached forward, the heel of his hand inadvertently brushed over her nipple. Flora let out a soft moan under her breath, and Alistair immediately froze.

There was a pause, and Flora had to resist the temptation to peek through her eyelashes; knowing that Alistair would be staring at her face to determine if she was waking. Making up her mind, she half-opened her eyes; snaring his gaze in the moonlit gloom for just long enough to relay her permission. Alistair stared back at her, with a heady mix of guilt, desire and curiosity. Feeling her heartbeat surge erratically forwards, Flora closed her eyes tightly once more.

A few moments later, she felt a fingertip nudge tentatively against her soft little nipple. Flora held her breath, not daring to move as the fingertip stroked gently at her nipple; coaxing it to stiffness. The callouses on the finger only added to the stimulation as he fondled her, rubbing gentle circles around the peak of the sensitive flesh.

She let out another quiet whimper, unable to stop a sound of muffled pleasure from escaping her throat. This seemed to spur on Alistair's confidence; soon, he was squeezing her nipple tenderly between finger and thumb.

The night seemed almost dreamlike; the tent simultaneously shrouded in shadow and yet lit by shafts of silvered moonlight. Flora felt her blood running hot in her veins; a flush of sheer wanton desire creeping up about her neck. She could seen Alistair's free hand moving beneath the blankets as he stroked himself; the tempting outline of something long and girthy pressed erect against the wool.

Flora had glimpsed Alistair's tawny cock on only two occasions before. She had caught sight of him in the wash-tent before, standing naked and dripping in a bathtub, with an impressively thick column of manhood hanging against his thigh. The second had been when she had accidentally interrupted Alistair pleasuring himself on the bedroll; an expression of ecstasy on her brother-warden's face as he stroked his fist from root to tip.

Now, it seemed that Alistair was too shy to expose himself to his curious partner; though his fist was moving with increasing intensity as he stroked her small nipple. The blanket slid down several inches with the force of his pumping fingers; rewarding Flora with a tantalising glimpse of his twitching, dripping shaft.

She was about to ask if she could take him in her mouth, when Alistair leaned forward with a sudden courageous surge of impulsivity. As his lips closed around her nipple, he began to suck gently at Flora's sensitive little peak.

Flora inhaled an unsteady gasp of pleasure, suddenly desperately wishing that her brother-warden was bold enough to let his fingertips wander between her thighs. She let her thighs part a fraction, just enough to betray her lack of smallclothes; yet Alistair was still lavishing his attentions on her small nipple. His tongue lapped gently at the succulent tip of her breast, tracing the outline of the raspberry-pink peak.

From the dazed and delighted look on Alistair's reddened face, it was clear that he was enjoying this unexpected – but welcome – detour into the world of adult pleasures. In the harsh light of morning, he knew that the shyness and self-consciousness would return; and so he was relishing every moment of startling intimacy. A beautiful girl had shown him her bare breast and was allowing him to suck, kiss and fondle her tender nipple to his heart's content; soft mewls of pleasure escaping her lips.

After a short while, Alistair found himself near climax. Finally removing his lips from Flora's breast, he half-fell back against the bedroll; hand moving with increasing vigour beneath the blanket. After one particularly rough buck of his hips, the embroidered wool slid to one side. Alistair's cock, almost ten inches of broad, rosy pink flesh, was revealed in all its glory; slick with his own excited juices and being expertly pumped by a strong fist.

Flora gaped at it, feeling an excited pulse begin to throb between her legs. She couldn't help but imagine him working himself inch by slow inch into her little slit; stretching her out even more than Duncan's cock had done.

She was studying Alistair's shaft so carefully that she could see the beginnings of his orgasm. The swollen length began to pulse with new intensity, a strangled cry escaping his lips as spurt after spurt of milky white seed landed on his chest.

For several moments, he lay panting on his bedroll, staring up at the canvas ceiling with wide, disbelieving eyes. His cock lay across his thigh, still impressive in length and breadth despite its partial deflation. His chest moved erratically up and down as he gulped down mouthfuls of damp night air.

Flora watched him, a flush of pleasure still lingering on her cheeks. Although she had not climaxed herself, it had been mesmerising to watch her fellow recruit's bulky, muscle-bound body contort in helpless throes of ecstasy as he shot thick strings of seed onto his chest.

After he had regained some coherence, Alistair shot her a slightly embarrassed side glance; tucking that glorious cock away into his sleep-trousers.

"Sorry, Flo," he muttered, relieved that the other Wardens still appeared to be snoring away on their own bedrolls. "I… I've been inappropriate. I shouldn't have touched you – or… k-kissed you there."

"Well, I  _wanted_  you to touch me," she breathed, meeting his gaze earnestly. "I liked it."

"You… you did?"

Instead of replying verbally, Flora dropped her hand between her own legs; parting her thighs just enough to betray her lack of smallclothes. Biting her lip to stifle a moan, she rubbed a finger along the slick, tender folds of her cunt, circling her clitoris in the way that Duncan had taught her. She was obscenely wet, her finger gliding without resistance over the contours of her folds.

Alistair listened in breathless wonder to the sound of undeniable arousal. For the briefest of moments, a flicker of primal lust passed across his face; Maric's younger son was tempted to take his cock out, mount his friend and start rutting her right there and then in the communal tent.

However, Alistair's incumbent shyness won out. With difficulty he tore his eyes from Flora's stroking fingers and rolled over, giving an unintelligible mumble in excuse. Flora withdrew her fingers, then reached out with her other hand and patted him gently between the shoulder-blades.

"Night night, brother-warden," she said under her breath, feeling him – despite everything – instinctively arch his back towards her touch. "Don't let the weever-fish bite."

Flora shoved the blankets down from her legs, inching herself out into the chill air with a little grimace. She made to scramble upright, and then paused; instead of standing, she leaned forward to put her mouth to Alistair's ear.

"Thank you for sharing that with me. It was beautiful," she whispered, letting her fingers rest against the top of his head for a moment. "Don't spend too long praying for forgiveness."


	22. Staking A Claim

A short time later, Duncan was rubbing soap into his mender's high, rounded breasts as she sat naked in the bathtub, her wet hair trailing in thick tangles down her back. Flora had arrived at the Warden-Commander's tent just after a pair of servants had delivered a copper tub steaming with hot water. Duncan had risen from his writing desk and hastily dismissed the servants; striding across the rush-matting to take her in his arms. After a lingering kiss of greeting, the commander had decided that he could delay his own bath. Instead, he spent the next few minutes undressing his young recruit, peeling off each layer of her night clothes while pressing his lips against each newly exposed area of skin.

Finally, Duncan had helped her into the large copper tub, his erection already painful against his trousers. Flora sat back against the curved rim, her hair floating like strands of crimson seaweed on top of the water and a pink flush blossoming on her cheeks at the steamy temperature.

"So, how did Alistair like your bare breast,  _qalbi?"_ he murmured, rubbing soap into a lather between his hands. "Did you get a moment of privacy to show him?"

The Warden-Commander reached down and massaged the foam into Flora's pert, breasts, admiring the slickness of the soap against her creamy skin. She blushed; he was unsure whether it was due to his actions, or to the memory of what had transpired earlier that evening.

"I showed him," she replied, breathless. "He liked it, I think."

Duncan felt a strange mingling of arousal and envy in his gut; he could not help but imagine the scene in the shadowed corner of the Warden tent.

_They're the same age, and he's as handsome as she is beautiful. It's natural and right that they explore each other's bodies._

"What did he do?" he asked, keeping his voice deliberately steady as he slid his thumbs around her pert breasts. "Tell me,  _zahra."_

"He touched my nipple," Flora whispered, her breath catching in her throat.

"Like this?"

"No, more in a circle –  _mm. L-like that."_

Flora tilted her head back with a little sigh, eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks.

Duncan continued to massage both of her soap-slick nipples between calloused finger and thumb. A scout entered discreetly with a pile of correspondence; without pausing his ministrations, the Warden-Commander jerked his chin irritably towards his writing desk. Moments later, Duncan realised that the scout had placed the letters on his desk but was still standing there, transfixed, staring at the girl's pretty, naked breasts. The youth's erection was tenting his breeches, one hand sneaking down towards the bulge.

Duncan shot the scout one of his more threatening Rivaini stares and the youth made a hasty departure. The Warden-Commander then returned his full attention to his lover, who was now squirming beneath the bubbles, desperate for his touch.

"Did Alistair do anything other than touch your breast, baby?"

"He- he…  _sucked_  my nipple," Flora confessed, excitement sending liquid pulses shooting between her legs. "For quite a long time. He kissed it and licked it with his tongue. And he was touching himself while he was doing it. He came all over his chest."

Duncan let out a soft groan; his arousal tinged with envy. He reached down with one hand and unbuckled his belt, letting his erect cock spring free. His other hand dropped beneath the foamy layer of bubbles, nestling between her thighs to cup her folds lovingly.

"And how wet did this pretty little cunt get for him,  _qalbi_?"

Flora flushed even deeper, feeling his broad forefinger nudge against the entrance to her little slit. As she opened her mouth to reply, Duncan pushed the finger gently inside her; crooking it slightly to rub her most sensitive spot. A moan of delight escaped her throat; her pants only increasing as his thumb began to simultaneously massage her pearl of pleasure.

"Oh –  _ohh!"_

"Answer my question,  _zahra._ How wet did this little cunt get for Alistair?"

"Aah –  _so wet- "_

"Were you dripping for him?"

" _Mm – yes…"_

"Did you want him to fuck you, right there and then?"

"Yes, yes."

The Warden-Commander inhaled unsteadily, then reached down and lifted his naked lover bodily from the bathtub. Flora put her arms about his neck, water streaming from her in rivulets as he crossed the tent in three hasty strides.

Duncan placed Flora on the bed – careless of her wet body against the blankets – and gazed down at her for a moment. Then, he reached down and rolled her over onto her stomach. Heart racing with both arousal and the need to  _claim,_ Duncan reached down to grip her rounded buttocks, pressing his thumbs into the ripe flesh. Slowly, savouring the sight, he parted them until they were spread wide; gazing down at the tantalising, virginal pinprick nestled within. Flora let out a muffled whimper as the chill night air teased the puckered entrance, her fingers curling into the blankets.

"My sweet dove," Duncan murmured thickly, licking his lips in anticipation. "You won't be able to sit down tomorrow once I'm through with you."

She let out a small whimper, twisting her head to watch as he gazed hungrily down at her spread buttocks.

"Part your thighs for me," he instructed, perching on the edge of the bed and giving his cock a few idle strokes. "I'm going to make you nice and relaxed. Close your eyes, enjoy yourself, love."

Over the next half-candle, Duncan coaxed three orgasms from his trembling young recruit; each more potent than the last. He brought her to climax with skilled fingers, carefully applied kisses; and finally, an elegantly carved stone phallus. Flora moaned in unabashed pleasure, her legs spread wide on the blankets as Duncan pushed the onyx cock in and out of her sopping wet slit. He kept it within her as she convulsed around it, stifling her cries in the pillow.

Finally, he withdrew the phallus and set it to one side, reaching for yet another object from beneath the bed; a tiny wooden frog with a ridged back. This crafty device was a speciality from Rivain; where sexuality was celebrated and encouraged, rather than stifled by Chantry morality.

"Alright, baby," he murmured, brushing a thumb over the ridged wood curve before sliding it between Flora's legs and beneath her pubic mound. "I want you to position your sweet little pearl against this. If you feel any discomfort, just rub yourself along it."

Flora gave an experimental wriggle, a squeak of surprise escaping her lips as the ridges ground over her swollen bead. Distracted by the unusual sensation, she barely registered the uncorking of oil from somewhere behind her.

Duncan leaned forward to press a kiss to her naked shoulder-blades, letting the almond oil drizzle between her pert buttocks. She was still distracted by the sensations from the ridged wood toy; squeaks of pleasure escaping her throat as she rocked against it.

Coating his finger in the oil, he began to stroke her little pinprick in circles; petting the wrinkled pucker with tender affection. Flora stopped grinding herself against the wood and held her breath, focusing her attention on his gently probing fingertip.

"My gorgeous girl," he breathed, letting the end of his finger nudge against the tight entrance. "I'm going to finger you now. Remember what I said about breathing deeply, and rubbing your pearl on the little frog?"

"Mm," whispered Flora, caught between nervousness and excitement.

With tantalising slowness, Duncan began to work his finger inside her ass, feeling her startled body fighting him for every centimetre of penetration. He paused at the second knuckle, letting her get used to the sensation.

"This feels so fucking  _right,"_ the Warden-Commander breathed in his recruit's ear, hot and unsteady as he pushed his finger ever-deeper. "Good girl, keep humping that little frog."

Duncan paused, wishing he had some way of preserving this moment in his memory forever. He gazed down at his broad finger, buried neatly in his lover's sweet, unexplored pinprick.

"How does it feel inside there,  _qalbi?"_

"Strange," Flora whispered, her voice hoarse. "But nice."

He bent his head to kiss her between the shoulder-blades, simultaneously beginning to slide his finger slowly in and out.

Flora's eyes flew open in surprise, a startled flush flooding her cheeks. Duncan felt her flinch around him, but kept up the slow fucking of her ass with his finger. He angled his knuckle to rub repeatedly against her wrinkled entrance; stimulating as many sensitive nerve endings as possible.

Soon, Flora was lying limp and compliant across her commander's lap; surrendering her sweet little ass for his usage. Her face was flushed, lips parted; anticipating and then savouring each deep thrust of his finger.

"Alright,  _amar,"_ Duncan murmured, cupping the firm curve of her buttock and giving it a gentle squeeze. "Let's lie down together."

Flora slithered off his lap onto the mattress, the wooden frog slipping to the rush matting. As she groped a limp hand towards it, Duncan swiftly divested his clothing and settled down, naked, on the bed behind her. The Warden-Commander still had an enviable build even in his fifties, lean muscle and sinew tightly packed over a leonine frame; riddled with old scars and marks of battle.

"Don't worry about the frog," he murmured in Flora's ear, pressing his lips tenderly to the back of her neck. "I'm not going to take my finger off your little pearl once my cock is inside you."

Flora exhaled, tilting her head back against Duncan's broad and capable shoulder. She heard the sound of oil being uncorked behind her; followed shortly by the sound of brisk, fleshy massage. Her heart leapt forwards in excitement and nervous anticipation, realising that her mentor was rubbing almond oil expertly into his cock.

"This position is meant to feel the best for you," he said into her ear, the words emerging soft and reassuring. "But I want you to tell me if it hurts too much, or if you want to stop. Promise?"

"I promise!"


	23. Claimed In Every Way

Duncan circled an arm around her waist, nuzzling his face into the back of her neck. Despite the physical disparities between them – Flora was a foot smaller, and half his breadth – she felt sturdy and warm against him; her body firm with the ripeness of youth. She was still damp from the bath; the cooling water mingling with her own feverish flush of excitement; hair in wet, tangled ropes across the pillow.

As though sensing the heat of his stare, Flora twisted her head and smiled shyly at him, mingled anticipation and nervousness writ across her lovely, fine-boned face.

He snared her wide, pale eyes with his own dark ones and they gazed at each other with unblinking, mesmerised focus. Temporarily forsaking his oiled cock, Duncan leaned forward and their mouths came together; as naturally as though their lips had been crafted to yield specifically to each other. A soft groan of affection escaped his throat as she whimpered with pleasure.

It was a long time before their lips parted, and even then, they kept brushing together, nibbling and pecking, anything to prolong the contact.

 _Come on,_ Duncan's mind told him, firmly.  _Your cock should be nestled snugly between those ripe buttocks by now._

He reached back around and dabbled his fingers in the heated folds of her cunt – which were even slicker than they had been shortly beforehand.

"I love how wet and eager your sweet little cunt get when I kiss you,  _zahra,_ " the Warden-Commander murmured, crudely. "Are you ready?"

Flora nodded, then let out a startled squeak as she felt his cock sheath itself fully between her folds. Duncan had to stifle a chuckle, allowing himself three long, delicious strokes into his recruit's welcoming slit.

"I couldn't resist," he murmured in her ear, thrusting gently up into her from behind. "Just a little appetiser before the main course. Fuck, you're so  _fucking_ tight."

Flora, who had never had a meal that consisted of more than one course in her life, let out a dazed whimper; eyes closed and lips parted in pleasure as she savoured each stroke of her mentor's cock.

Three thrusts quickly turned into six, which doubled once more. Duncan caught himself just on the brink of slipping into a rhythm; forcing himself to pull out just as they were beginning to fuck in earnest.

"Ssh, baby," he crooned in response to her moan of despair. "You'll get my cock again in a moment."

Clumsily, he managed to uncork the oil with one hand, letting some precious liquid leak out over the blankets. Leaning back, guided by touch, the Warden-Commander greased his shaft up for a second time; massaging the scented oil carefully into the length of his cock, from root to head. Leaning out an arm, he moved one of the lanterns closer on the dresser to illuminate the bed.

"Now, if it feels too uncomfortable, love, tell me and we can stop," he murmured against her ear, settling down until he was aligned behind her.

"Is it going to hurt?" she asked, inhaling unsteadily as she felt his calloused finger stroke her oiled pucker in tender little circles.

"Most likely, at first," Duncan replied honestly, letting his finger slide in to the second knuckle to remind her of the sensation. "Breathe through it,  _qalbi._ I promise, once the initial discomfort passes, it'll feel just as nice as when I fuck your pretty cunt. Some women even  _prefer_ it."

Flora let out a northerner's grunt, tilting her head against his shoulder, damp hair spilling across the mattress. Duncan pressed his lips to it, admiring the rich, oxblood colour of the tangled skeins. Reaching around her slender hips, he nestled a thumb snugly between her folds; starting up a stroke that was both comforting and pleasurable. She let out a little purr, and as he had hoped, relaxed back into his chest.

"Relax,  _zahra_ ," the Warden-Commander murmured, dropping his free hand to the root of his shaft. "Keep your body nice and loose."

Despite his voice creating a semblance of composure, Duncan could feel perspiration breaking on his forehead, nerves jangling raw in excitement and anticipation. His cock was throbbing with the need to sheath itself, the dark maroon bulb leaking copiously and a thick vein pulsing along its length.

Carefully, he nudged the tip between her buttocks, letting his own stiffness part the pert mounds of flesh. As his cockhead came to rest against the oiled pinprick, he felt her tense beneath him and immediately bent to kiss her neck; whispering tender reassurance into her ear.

Inch by inch, the Warden-Commander could feel her body relax; soothed by his sweet words and affectionate kisses. Continuing to pet her little pearl, Duncan gently let his cockhead push inside the tight ring of flesh; feeling it futilely attempt to resist him before yielding.

Such was the tightness of her flesh around him, that it took all of his willpower not to loose his seed. In an attempt to distract himself, he focused instead on stimulating his young mender's tiny clitoris; rolling it gently between thumb and fingertip. She whimpered, eyes closed and lips parted; just like some languid courtesan from a Tevinter emperor's harem.

"You beautiful creature," Duncan whispered in her ear, letting her grow accustomed to the sensation of his throbbing bulb within her tender pucker. "My cock looks so  _good_  inside your ass. I'm going to push in a little deeper."

It took all of the Warden-Commander's resolve not to sink himself to the root; to defy the tightness of her pinprick hole and claim it swiftly as his own.

Instead, he worked himself in with excruciating slowness, gritting his teeth as her virgin ass fought him at every inch. The sensation each time it yielded to him was exquisite; the temptation to let off his seed inside her unbearable.

Duncan could hear Flora whimpering beneath him, caught on the razor's edge between pleasure and pain. His finger was now thrusting gently in and out of her cunt – he could feel the movement against his half-impaled cock – but even so, her little whines betrayed how his thick shaft was stretching her.

"Your body is a gift from the Maker," Duncan breathed selfishly in her ear, praying that she would not ask him to stop. "Imagine that Alistair was here, watching you take me from behind. Do you think he'd be shocked,  _qalbi?"_

As he had hoped, the flushing Flora was distracted enough to let him work in another broad inch.

"I think he'd be shocked to see us in bed together at all," she replied, breathlessly. "He thinks that General Mac Tir is my lover."

The Warden-Commander let out a derisive snort, letting a fingertip nudge between her folds.

"Mac Tir wouldn't have the first clue how to treat a rare and lovely creature like you," he murmured as he began to stroke. "He'd have you on all fours like a Mabari while dictating orders to his secretary."

Despite the circumstances, he snorted; rolling his eyes as Flora blinked.

" _Really?"_

Not wanting the scowling spectre of Loghain resident in his mind at that moment, the Warden-Commander grunted distractedly, pressing his lips to the back of her neck and increasing the pressure of his strokes. As expected, his young lover began to whimper and squirm beneath him; the instinctive rocking of her hips drawing his cock inadvertently deeper.

"I love how quickly you come for me," Duncan said softly, recognising the excited hitching of her breath as she neared orgasm. "My fingers were shaped to pleasure this sweet little cunt."

He began to tap the swollen bud of Flora's pearl in a firm, increasingly rapid staccato. Sure enough, within moments she was convulsing against him, her whole body shivering; the orgasm enhanced in potency by the stimulation from her rear.

Duncan had taken advantage of his recruit's climax to work his cock fully between her buttocks; teeth gritting as he had to restrain himself from spending his seed at the tightness of her unyielding flesh.

" _Zahra,"_ he said thickly, resting his chin on top of Flora's shoulder and wrapping an arm around her waist. "How does it feel?"

He could see her genuinely thinking about it, biting the plump softness of her lower lip absent-mindedly.

"I feel full of you," she whispered, still dreamy from her most recent orgasm. "I can feel every inch of you inside me."

Duncan had to stifle a low moan, feeling his cock give a delicious pulse of arousal.

"Let's lie here for a little while like this," he murmured against her ear, letting his lips brush against the skin. "I want you to get used to the feeling of my cock snug inside your pretty ass."

Flora gave an obedient nod, shifting slightly to find the most comfortable position. Once she had found an unexpectedly pleasant angle, she eased herself back against his chest; a faint blush rising to her cheeks.

Inevitably, their mouths met soon afterwards, exchanging kisses that were remarkably soft and tender considering that the Warden-Commander was buried to the sac between his young recruit's buttocks. Their lips worked languidly together in mutual passion, lazy and yet full of raw desire.

At last, Duncan pulled his head back; wary of what he might inadvertently confess if they shared another lingering, affectionate gaze. He was already aware that his feelings for his sweet young mender went beyond the purely lustful; for every erotic fantasy he had of her, there was one that was terrifyingly mundane, evocative of a desire far deeper than just carnal.

_Why do I want to break my fast with you in the morning? And why do I look for your face first amongst the recruits?_

_I want to take you to Rivain; introduce you to the old women who commune with the spirits there._

_Maker, what am I thinking? There's a fucking Blight on._

"I'm going to start fucking you now," Duncan murmured, interrupting his own fantasising with deliberate crudeness. "I want to see my cock pumping between these ripe little buttocks. I'll start off nice and slow."

Inch by excruciating inch, he withdrew from Flora; gritting his teeth as she clenched inadvertently around him. Keeping the bulb nestled within her, he forced himself not to sink back inside her yielding tightness.

"Tell me what you want," he breathed, a faint growl in the back of his throat.

"More," she whispered, eyes half-closed and lips parted. "Please."

Duncan sunk himself back between her buttocks in a single, gentle thrust, forcing himself to hold back the main part of his taint-fuelled strength. Flora let out a little gasp of shock and he gripped her more tightly, pressing his lips comfortingly to the back of her neck.

" _Qalbi,"_ he soothed, nuzzling his bearded jaw against her sweaty hair. "My little dove, shall I stop?"

She shook her head, curling her arms around the pillow and clutching it to her breasts.

"Keep going," she whispered, shifting herself against him. "I'm – I'm getting used to it."

Duncan moved his hips back and forth slowly, letting his cock slide almost all the way out of her before pushing back in. At first he met obstinate tightness with each thrust, but eventually he could sense a  _yielding_  as she began to relax, growing accustomed to the sensation. Regardless the Warden-Commander was grateful for the slow initial pace; after all, he did not wish to spend his seed over-hastily.

 _I'm only a man, despite the endurance loaned by the taint,_ he thought to himself with gritted teeth, watching the dark breadth of his cock pump slowly between her ripe young buttocks.  _And she feels so fucking exquisite around me._

The timbre of Flora's gasps soon changed beneath him; the little grunts of pain gradually blurring into whimpers of pleasure. Moans began to intersperse the gasps, throaty pants of need slipping from her lips. Duncan realised that she was beginning to move herself against him with each thrust, trying to get his cock to work itself deeper.

"Good girl," he murmured, letting a fraction more of his strength through the rocking of his hips. "Is it starting to feel nice, baby?"

She nodded and he increased the speed of his thrusts, the sound of oiled flesh rhythmically colluding echoing around the tent. His meaty sac swung against her slick, unused folds; the muscles in his broad thighs working as he fucked deep into her sweetly yielding ass.

Her cries of pleasure were raw and edged with pain; yet she begged him for  _more_  each time that he slowed his pace. Duncan drove himself into her with increasing desperation, craving a darker form of release that only this illicit act could provide.

He was so fixated on chasing this most carnal of climaxes that Flora's orgasm caught him by surprise. She bucked back against his cock, her entire body convulsing, a wail of desperation unlike anything he had heard from her before tearing from her lips. It lasted for what seemed like an Age, her pelvis shuddering with aftershocks that prompted broken moans of delight.

Duncan usually lavished praise upon her for each climax she reached; yet this time his thoughts were driven solely by his own need. He gripped Flora by the hips and rolled her onto her stomach; limp and boneless, she let him lift her buttocks into the air.

The Rivaini then mounted his spirit healer from behind; crouched atop the mattress to facilitate a more powerful thrust. Every muscle in Duncan's body worked to piston his cock in and out of his young lover's exquisitely tight little ass. Inhuman grunts escaped his throat as he panted, teeth bared and sweat pouring in rivulets between his shoulder-blades. The tendons in his neck stood out; the veins in his shaft pulsated; the blood surging hot and frenzied around his body as he fucked Flora into the bedroll.

Duncan pressed himself on top of her when he came, his weight pushing her down amidst the blankets. He could not have stayed upright if he had wanted to; his world shrunk to the erratic shuddering of his cock within his partner's well-used hole. His vision contracted, the blood rushing loud in his ears like the tide coming in at  _Kont-Arr._ He did not know how loud he had been; but suspected that he would be the subject of some lewd commentary from the other senior wardens at breakfast the next morning.

Since neither of them wanted the experience to be over; Duncan fucked her ass lazily for the next few minutes, using his cock until it became too limp to stay in. He continued to hump his groin against her; their sweaty bodies moving languidly together on the blankets.

Finally, he rolled off and brought Flora against his chest, drawing her into the loving circle of his arms. They shared tender kisses for some time; she shyly delighted with this new form of pleasure, and he filled with primal, masculine pride.

The Warden-Commander interrupted the working of their lips just once, to call his steward and instruct that a fresh bath of heated water be brought in. The moment that the order was issued, he returned his attentions to his eager lover's mouth. There was a special intimacy to these kisses that reflected what they had just done together; a new, indulgent richness to the movement of supple tongues.

 _I've claimed every part of this beautiful girl,_ Duncan thought, with tender triumph.  _I gave her her first kiss and her first climax. I tongued that ripe little cunt before any other man. My cock has taken every virginity she had._

_Because of this girl, I feel truly alive again._

When the bath arrived a short time later, the Warden-Commander did not notice it at first; too busy gazing into Flora's solemn, dark-lashed grey eyes as she stroked his bearded cheek with tender fingers.

Once Duncan did notice the bath, he lifted his young lover into his arms; carrying her over to the copper tub. To her delight, he stepped into the bath and lowered them both into it; their kissing resuming as she lay on his chest in the soapy water.

"How does it feel, baby?" he murmured eventually, nudging a finger between her buttocks and gently rubbing her wrinkled pinprick. "Is it tender?"

"It's a little sore," she admitted, the breath catching in her throat as he continued to caress it lovingly with a fingertip.

"Well, we need to do something about that," he replied, a soft growl to the words. "Bend over the edge of the bath,  _qalbi,_ and part those pretty buttocks for me."

Moments later, Flora was bent over the copper rim; feeling shamelessly exposed with her pulled-apart rear in the air, bathwater dripping down her thighs. She felt Duncan shift in the bath behind her, his breath hot and excited over her asshole.

"Stay just like that," he instructed, moistening his lips in preparation.

Over the next half-candle, the Warden-Commander pleasured his blushing recruit with his tongue; teasing her little pinprick with kisses before licking it lovingly in tender laps. She had squeaked in embarrassment at first, but a combination of his reassurance and delicious stimulation soon had her biting back her protests.

The peculiar self-healing nature of Flora's body meant that she did not remain sore for long. The oil-flask was uncorked at three hours into the morning, and again just before dawn. It was even surreptitiously loosened as the rest of the camp rose to break their fast; soft, guttural grunts and stifled moans of raw pleasure emitting from the Warden-Commander's tightly fastened tent as the sentries dismissed any early visitors.

Eventually, Flora remembered that she was accompanying several new recruits into the Wilds that morning, and rose to take her leave. The tent was warm with the heady smell of soap and sex; Duncan let her leave with great reluctance.

" _Zahra,"_ he said as she pulled on her boot, hopping on unsteady legs. "Be careful today. I won't have you hurt."

Flora peered at her commander in slight bewilderment; he had never expressed concern for her safety before, aware of the potency of her guardian spirits. Duncan bit back a rueful smile at her confusion, running a hand over his greying, sweaty hair to flatten it.

"Just… be careful."

"I will!"


	24. A New Experience For Alistair

Some time later, Alistair was waiting patiently with the horses at Ostagar's crumbling gatehouse, beneath the long shadow of the Tower of Ishal. It was a fine autumn day – the sun was a pale orb the colour of buttermilk, wreathed in a bridal veil of cloud. The Southron Hills – purplish mounds covered with gorse and lavender – were just visible at the northern end of the steeply forested Ostagar valley.

The junior Warden should have been running through the day's schedule for a final time – after all, he was technically in charge of this excursion into the Wilds. He would be taking three new recruits to fetch their vials of Darkspawn blood from the fetid swampland; a dour-faced dwarf who had found no purpose on the Surface, an Amaranthine human convicted of murder, and a Dalish elf who had been expelled from his tribe for killing one of their sacred  _halla_.

Instead, Alistair's thoughts kept returning to the events of last night. Tucked away in the corner of the Warden's dormitory tent, his beautiful and grave-faced fellow recruit had let him fondle her breast – to be more specific, her nipple – and he had pleasured himself to climax openly before her. It had been such a strange and surreal experience that Alistair woke in the morning convinced that it had been a dream. Yet, to counter this, dried spend covered his inner thigh – markedly different from the usual fresh morning emissions.

 _Maker's Breath,_ he had thought as he sat up, eyes wide in the half-light of dawn.  _It actually happened._

Alistair had turned to look at the bedroll beside him, and had seen that it was still empty. He realised, with a strange pang in his gut, that Flora must have spent the rest of the night in the arms of her lover.

_The noises she made when I kissed her nipple. I've never heard anything like that before._

Just then, Flora herself arrived; struggling over the lowered fortress drawbridge with her arms full. She had her staff slung over her shoulder, several long and rolled up maps of the Wilds gathered to her chest, a rope of glass vials dangling from her elbow, and a precarious pile of water-pouches nestled on top of the rest.

It was testament to the dubious character of the Warden recruits that none of them stepped forward to offer assistance. Alistair, after shooting the new conscripts a glower, hastened to Flora's side and liberated her burden; lifting it easily within strong arms.

"Thank you," she said, turning her pale eyes on him and smiling. "Don't you sometimes wish you had eight limbs, like an octopus?"

Alistair felt a flush creeping upwards from his collar, prompted wholly by the curve of her full-lipped mouth angling lazily upwards.

"I can honestly say that I've never desired to have the body of an octopus," he replied, forcing some lightness into the words.

Flora smiled at him a moment longer, then her eyes slid to the three scowling recruits stood beside the horses.

"They don't look very happy," she observed, laconically. "I wonder what their faces will look like when we arrive in the Wilds?"

"I think they'll mutiny the moment they actually see a Hurlock," Alistair muttered back, relieved that there was no awkwardness between them. "The human especially looks ready to scarper across the hills to freedom."

 

They mounted the horses and began to follow the narrow trail that contorted itself in angles down the steep side of the valley; branching away from the main road and heading south towards the Wilds. Coniferous trees rose up high on both sides of the trail, their branches stretching out into a deep green canopy overhead.

Alistair found himself darting too-frequent glances sideways to the girl riding alongside him. Flora's hair was caught up in a high, oxblood ponytail on top of her head, several errant strands curling against her collarbone. She was also clad in Warden-garb that was far too large for her – she was a slight girl only a few inches above five feet in height. There was something oddly endearing about the rolled up sleeves and the ill-fitting tunic; which kept absent-mindedly sliding down a shoulder. The only piece of clothing that fit her properly were her boots, a legacy from the Circle.

Still, Flora did not seem to care; she was a northern girl for whom clothing served a function and little else. She was more concerned with staying on the saddle, her thighs clamped against the horse's side and her fingers wound in the reins.

"You didn't come back to the tent last night," Alistair observed as they passed a narrow waterfall, using the sound of the water to disguise his words. "I – I was worried."

Flora shot him a sideways glance, then quickly returned her eyes to the front as she nearly lost her balance.

"Sorry. I meant to come back earlier."

"You were with – with your mysterious 'older man'?"

"Mm."

"The whole night?"

Flora nodded, feeling a blush creep upwards from her collar. She wondered if she ought to correct his assumption that she had been sharing a bedroll with Mac Tir, but could not think of an eloquent enough way to put it.

Alistair fell silent, shooting his fellow warden-recruit a curious sideways glance. He tried in vain to picture her naked beneath Loghain Mac Tir, gasping in pleasure with her legs wrapped around his waist; and simply could not do it.

_I can't imagine her making the noises she made for me last night for the old, sour-faced general. Mac Tir wouldn't properly appreciate those soft, blissful moans and… and pleasured little whimpers._

_Maker, she even purred when I touched my tongue to her nipple. I- I'd never heard anything more erotic in my life. Not that I've much experience._

_Or, any. Let's be honest._

Alistair's eyes dropped inadvertently to Flora's high breasts as she rode alongside him; the pert little mounds pushed out against the fabric of her tunic. It was easy enough to recall the firmness of the ripe peak below, crowned with a succulent, dusky pink nipple.

Too late, he realised that he was staring; and that Flora had noticed his desirous gaze. Alistair hastily averted his eyes to the woodland trail before them, clearing his throat as a flush rose upwards from his collar.

After counting silently to thirty, Alistair risked darting a glance sideways. Flora was still watching him curiously. As his hazel eyes met her pale, ambiguous grey stare, she flashed him a small, shy smile.

"I hope you're planning on stopping for lunch before we get there," she observed quietly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "I don't think I can face a Hurlock on an empty stomach."

"Of course," he replied, forcing a light cheeriness into the words. "I wouldn't dream of skipping a meal!"

 

They paused for lunch just before leaving the valley, taking advantage of the forest canopy to shelter them from a thin drizzle. The early suggestion of fine weather had turned out to be a false promise; in true Fereldan autumnal style, the cloud had quickly drawn in overhead.

Alistair was not particularly enamoured of any of the new recruits – they did not seem to have a shred of honour between them – but then, he supposed that Duncan did not recruit men based on their virtues. The dwarf, the elf and the human sat some distance apart from each other to eat their fare; backs turned and conversation clearly out of the question.

The naturally curious Alistair had tried to initiate some conversation with each of them in turn, but had been met only with glowers and silence. None of the new recruits showed any interest in talking; their focus apparently devoted to their hunks of bread and cheese. The dwarf was leaning back against a rock, the elf took himself off behind a tree, and the human was ostensibly sharpening his blade.

Alistair turned his attention to his own partner, who sat cross-legged on the damp carpet of pine needles beside him. Flora had an impressive appetite for such a slight girl; she had devoured her way through a large chunk of bread, a slab of ham and two sweet, overripe pears.

"You're not bothered by the rain?" he asked her after a moment, noticing that she had not chosen a spot that was particularly dry.

"I don't mind it," she replied, the reply typically northern in both its soft, throaty dialect and in its stoicism. "I like it, actually. It reminds me of home."

"The Waking Sea?"

"Mm."

Flora's mouth curved wistfully at one corner, her eyes distant.

"I'm from Redcliffe," Alistair offered, then realised that she might not know where this was. "It's at the very southern tip of Lake Calenhad. The weather is dryer down south – if we had all the rain you got up north, our crops would be rotten and our profits all spoiled!"

She roused herself from her reverie, turning a thoughtful gaze on him.

"Do you miss it? Redcliffe?"

"I haven't thought about it in a while," Alistair replied, honestly. "I left when I was ten for a Chantry monastery, and I… I didn't leave on good terms."

Flora blinked at him without comment, then flashed a slightly wistful smile; idly braiding the pine needles together.

"I've heard that Lake Calenhad is the size of a sea," she murmured, fingers deftly working the green strands of foliage. "I'd like to see it, someday."

"We could go there, once the Darkspawn are defeated," Alistair replied, impulsively. "We could visit the arl."

A moment later he felt a pink flush creep up from beneath his collar, warming the naturally cool olive tone of his skin.

"I mean, if you'd want to."

"Thank you."

Flora twisted the corner of her mouth up at him again in a shy, lopsided half-smile.

Alistair darted her a quick glance, swallowed, then looked around to confirm that the unsociable recruits were stoically ignoring each other, their attention directed elsewhere. The human was still sharpening his blades with his back to them; the elf vanished into the woods; the dwarf hummed timelessly from the other side of a boulder. Thus confirmed, Alistair lowered his voice deliberately.

"I… I wanted to say sorry again for last night."

A faint line embedded itself across Flora's face as her gaze settled curiously on him.

"For – for touching you," he muttered, grateful that the sound of the rain muffled his words. "And for… kissing your… your – for  _kissing_  you. It was inappropriate of me."

"Well, I enjoyed it," Flora replied, with a little shrug. "Did you enjoy it?"

"M-Maker's Breath! Of course. It was one of the nicest things to ever happen to me. I still can't believe that it  _did_ happen, to be honest."

She gazed at him for a moment, then reached out and rested her fingertips on his thigh. Alistair was still clad in travel leathers for the journey to the Wilds; he could easily feel the pressure of her finger. Slowly, giving him time to stop her, she slid her finger up the strong muscle of his thigh; hard and bulky beneath the calfskin that covered it.

Alistair's breath caught in his throat as he watched her fingertip meander upwards. He made no move to stop her, but his heartbeat began to accelerate.

Flora paused, and then let her finger slide over his crotch. She traced the outline of the thick column of flesh that lay nestled within; feeling it stir with interest beneath her exploratory strokes.

" _Maker's Breath,"_ she heard Alistair croak, his eyes fixated on her teasing finger. "Flo – Flora- "

Flora smiled at him, recalling Duncan's earlier encouragement.

_The boy shouldn't be facing down the Darkspawn without knowing the touch of a woman. Give him something to fight for, qalbi._

Flora did not realise that this was part of her commander's efforts to emotionally distance himself from his young recruit- which had so far been entirely unsuccessful.

"Alistair," she whispered back, glancing around to make sure that the others were still preoccupied. "Do you want me to stop?"

In response Alistair reached out with a trembling hand and drew his pack before him; the leather bag providing them with some makeshift privacy.

Flora slid herself closer across the pine needles, until her thigh was pressed alongside his. Her finger was now deliberately stroking the length of her friend's stiffening shaft, which stood out in a jutting bulge down the leg of his calfskin trousers. It was semi-turgid and growing harder with each delicate caress of her fingertip; she could feel the heat pulsing from it even though the leather.

"Flora," Alistair breathed, a fine sheen of perspiration covering his forehead.  _"Maker's Breath."_

Flora let her palm settle over the throbbing shaft, shyly admiring the thick meatiness of her friend's cock. He had to bite back a startled whimper as she began to rub; sliding her hand up and down the iron-bound length. The leather was so thin that she could feel every excited twitch of his shaft beneath her palm.

"Don't stop," he pleaded through gritted teeth, letting his head tip back against the tree. "Please, Flo- "

Flora had no intention of stopping. She continued to rub at him through the skin-tight trousers; her dreamy-eyed and full-lipped face focused intently on his as she fondled and caressed his erect length. If one of the other recruits had bothered to glance in their direction, it would have been blatantly obvious that the junior warden was getting his cock stimulated by the pretty young mage. Alistair's face was flushed with pleasure and need, his eyes half-shut and air escaping his throat in surreptitious pants.

"Flo," he whispered in a half-strangled whisper, his erect shaft painfully swollen against his trousers as she caressed it tenderly through the level. "Flora. Maker's Breath- I need to…"

"What do you need?" she breathed back, swirling a finger over the outline of the throbbing head.

"Your breast," Alistair muttered back, in disbelief at his own audacity. "Show me your pretty breast, like you did last night in the tent."

Flora smiled at him, continuing to slide her palm languidly over his shaft as she reached up with her other hand. Alistair's cheeks grew pinker with every button unfastened, his breath quickening in excitement.

As she drew the material back to show him the pert, creamy mound, Alistair let out a low moan of wonder; eyes immediately settling on her raspberry-hued nipple. He mouthed as though trying to speak, his cheeks a tell-tale crimson.

"Flo-  _Flora_ – I'm going to… _aah!"_

Flora felt her friend's cock convulse beneath the leather; a quickly bitten-back cry caught in his throat. Alistair's hips bucked involuntarily, his head tilted back against the trunk of a pine tree with a grin of mingled ecstasy and disbelief scrawled across his features.

She rubbed him throughout his climax; coaxing several more spurts from his overstimulated cock as he came inside his trousers. Once Flora was satisfied that his orgasm had been prolonged as much as was possible, she withdrew her hand and went to button up her shirt.

"Wait," Alistair said throatily, the word emerging unsteady. "Just… one moment."

He ducked his head and pressed his lips tenderly to Flora's small, pink nipple; his shyness temporarily assuaged by post-orgasmic languor. Two, three,  _four_ soft kisses were delivered in turn; transitioning into a gentle suck as he felt her nipple stiffen beneath the attention of his tongue.

Just then, the dwarf awoke from what had been a stealthy afternoon nap; snorting and  _harrumphing_.

" _RIGHT!"_ he declared, wiping saliva from his beard and patting his stomach. "Ready to go?!"


	25. I Want To Watch You

By the time that they had followed the deep  _V_ of the forested valley to its end, it was mid-afternoon. The Korcari Wilds stretched out before them in a muddied tangle of bush, scrub and sickly tree; unappealing to the eye and seemingly endless. The swampy air gave off a stagnant miasma; if one inhaled too deeply, it was impossible not to feel nauseous.

Even more ominous was the prospect of the enemy that lurked within the deepest and darkest recesses of the Wilds. Darkspawn swarmed the marshland; the spongy earth was riddled with their tunnels and carved-out nests. Those residents of the Wilds – mostly tribes of Chasind, and the occasional hardy trapper – had fled in the face of this unwelcome encroachment.

Fortunately, the Wardens and the new recruits were not intending to venture deep within the swamp. They needed merely to find a small group of the enemy to gather the blood needed for the Joining ceremony.

The other purpose behind the expedition into the Wilds was to see how the recruits fared when face-to-face with the Darkspawn. Alistair did not hold out much hope for the human – he jumped at the slightest noise, a sheen of sweat sitting over his clammy features like a veil. The dwarf had been living on the Surface for a year, but was more familiar with Darkspawn from his days in Orzammar. The elf was from a race of victimised people and was therefore in a perpetual state of wary readiness.

They had left the horses tied loosely to a fence near the edge of the Wilds. The kind Alistair - who liked horses - never knotted the reins too tightly, in case a wandering pack of Darkspawn scented their vulnerable flesh. The human was not too pleased about travelling on foot, but Alistair had informed him bluntly that the route they were taking was not suitable for travel on horseback.

"Great," the man commented snidely, fingers creeping over the hilt of his blade. "Knee-deep in a bog: exactly how I want the sodding Darkspawn to find me. Why don't I jus' bend over as well, give 'em an even  _easier_ target?"

"Eh, grow some stones!" retorted the dwarf, who had no sympathy. "The quicker we're in, the quicker we're out again."

Alistair, who knew the route and whose taint-fuelled senses were more attuned, took point. He did not need to refer to the map, since this particular part of the Wilds was one of the most commonly used by Wardens and potential recruits. Several weeks prior he had taken Flora herself into this swampy stretch of marsh in preparation for her Joining.

Flora brought up the rear, as was expected for the resident shield mage. From this position, she could easily summon protective barriers around her advancing brethren; should they be ambushed. Of course, this left her vulnerable to attack from behind – Flora's Darkspawn senses were just beginning to develop, but they manifested in the form of a vague tingling as opposed to the more specific warning granted to her senior colleagues.

 _Duncan can tell how far away the Darkspawn are, what direction an attack is coming from,_  Flora thought to herself as she avoided a puddle on the trail.  _And even the breed of creature attacking – whether it's a Hurlock, or… the other type. The ones that attack with bows and arrows._

_Gorlocks? Gurlocks?_

"Flo?"

She looked up to where Alistair had paused a dozen yards ahead; his olive and gilt colouring standing out like a gleaming brand against the drab background of the swamp.

"Eh?"

"Can you…  _feel_ anything?"

Flora tilted her head to the side, appraisingly. There was a prickle in the corner of her mind, but she found it hard to distinguish between the presence of Darkspawn and the tingle of her own spirits.

**_It's not us._ **

_Oh! It's not?_

**_No. Prepare yourself!_ **

Flora opened her mouth and began to reply in the affirmative, when Alistair's own face contorted into a sudden hard readiness. He swung his muscular frame around with surprising agility, lifting his shield from his shoulder while simultaneously raising his blade. There was a shifting in the earth before him; the spongy soil frothing as something clawed its way upwards.

A Hurlock erupted snarling from the soil, reddened eyes swivelling about in search of prey. Alistair used his shield as a makeshift club, crashing the heavy curve of silverite down on the bestial's figure's head. It was a blow hard enough to cause damage to any rational creature's brain, yet Darkspawn were driven by primal instinct; it leapt towards the young Warden with rotted fangs bared.

Alistair lifted his shield, but a far greater barrier had manifested between himself and the mad-eyed foe. A gleaming golden sheath had torn itself through the air; with a single convulsion of energy, the Hurlock was sent staggering backwards. Taking advantage of the creature's loss of balance, Alistair raised his blade and lunged forwards; shoving it without ceremony between the Hurlock's ribs.

"Ha!"

More of the creatures were emerging now, rising from the marshes with dark strands of weed trailing from twisted, sinewy limbs. The dwarf, to his credit, had swung down his battle-ax the moment that the foe had first started to claw its way through the earth. He strode towards one of the creatures with a great bellow, splashing through the shallows of the swamp.

The elf had positioned himself on a low branch, clambering up the tree trunk as agile as any forest-dwelling creature. White with fear, his hand shook as he whipped arrow after arrow from the quiver at his back; firing repeatedly down at the half-dozen encroaching Hurlocks.

Meanwhile, Flora had just been barrelled into at full force by the retreating human. She had been so focused on channelling the shield around Alistair – he was a dozen yards away, and the distance required greater concentration – that she did not realise that one recruit had taken flight.

The man crashed into her on the narrow trail, his eyes wild with terror as he sought only one thing:  _escape._ Flora lost her balance – she stood at only two inches over five foot, and the man easily had another six inches on her – and fell back onto her rear. As she lay sprawled across the mud, one of the Hurlocks spotted an opportunity. It raised its spear – a vicious blackwood length with a jagged, rusting iron point – and launched it in a deadly arc towards her.

Flora blinked like a fish pulled fresh from the hook. A split-second later, a golden net blossomed in the air before her; catching the spear within an incorporeal tangle.

 ** _Focus!_** her spirits hissed reprovingly in her ear.  ** _You ought not to rely on us!_**

A moment later, Alistair had crashed to a halt beside her, his blade bloodied and adrenaline writ raw across his handsome, battle-contorted features. The ethereal net dissolved into the damp air as the spear fell to the ground; Alistair let his shield drop as he made a grab for the wooden length. Turning around, he raised the spear and braced himself on the muddy trail, letting out a grunt of exertion as the Hurlock inadvertently impaled itself on its own weapon.

Meanwhile, Flora – who was still on her back – had propped herself up on an elbow so she could see the field of battle. Thrusting a hand towards the dwarf, she curled a shield around his back that deflected a Genlock's poison-tipped arrow. The dwarf looked mildly traumatised at magic being used in such close proximity; but this unease did not prevent him from swiftly decapitating the progenitor of the arrow.

Flora was so focused on shielding the dwarf that she did not notice the clawed hand creeping upwards from the marsh nearby. A set of long fingers latched themselves around her ankle and gave a hard, viscous yank. Since she was already on the ground, it was easy for them to pull her towards the muddy bank.

Flora was utterly preoccupied on maintaining the one shield around the dwarf while channelling a secondary barrier to deflect a Hurlock from climbing the elf's tree. Her brain was clouded with golden mist like a cloud of spun sugar in some Orlesian's confectionary parlour; her veins ran hot as creation energy surged through their narrow passageways.

" _Flora! FLORA!"_

Alistair's bellow of alarm broke through Flora's focus just she found herself physically  _in_  the marsh. Something large and muscular lunged towards her in the shallows; she took a large gulp of muddy water in alarm, flailing a hand through the undergrowth. The next moment, she bent double in a coughing fit as she accidentally swallowed the foul mouthful.

A billow of golden energy had responded to her clumsy flail; washing the Hurlock onto the grassy bank. This brought it directly within range of Alistair's sword; the junior warden used his own bulk to thrust his blade into the creature's gut.

There followed a silence, save for the Darkspawn's fading death rattle and the laboured breathing of the dwarf. Six of their foe lay strewn in various states of dismemberment across the grass, their foul, pungent blood leaking from a dozen brutal wounds. The elf was still poised up the tree, eyes wide in shock and disbelief; Alistair let his sword drop to the mud and strode over to the bank.

"Flo? Are you hurt?"

From the water, Flora shook her head; she didn't think so. He crouched down and offered her a hand, she took it gratefully as she clambered inelegantly from the marsh. Pondweed trailed from her hair and she was covered from head to toe in pale, clay-like mud.

"I've got the vials,  _eurgh,"_  she said, spitting out a mouthful of stagnant water. "I don't think they're broken. Where did he go?"

This was in reference to the human that had fled off down the trail. Alistair took the string of vials from her, shaking his head as he squinted off into the distance.

"No idea. He  _definitely_ ran off in the wrong direction, though."

Alistair let out a rueful snort, handing a vial each to the tentatively approaching dwarf and elf. As the potential recruits went off to collect their samples of blood, he turned once more to his fellow Warden; who was soaked from head to toe, covered in mud and utterly unconcerned. Without quite meaning to he began to laugh, his heart still racing from the sight of her being dragged into the marsh.

"You look like something from a tale meant to scare little children! ' _It came from the Wilds.'."_

Flora obligingly bared her teeth at him, wringing out the end of her dark red braid.

"I am the swamp beast," she said, with an incongruous cackle.

Alistair grinned back at her, then shook his head and let out a sigh.

"Right, I suppose I'd better go and try to find our deserter. He won't make it far in these marshes on his own, and night is drawing in."

 

Sure enough, the autumnal afternoon was rapidly coming to a close; the sky darkening with each pass of the cloud over the sun. Fortunately, it appeared as though it were going to be a dry night – the earlier drizzle had eased off, leaving only a damp chill in its wake.

They made camp a league from the site of the battle; within an elevated clearing that afforded a view for several miles in each direction.  _Toth_ hung low in the sky overhead like a series of carefully arranged lanterns, casting the Wilds in a pearlescent light and lending the marshes an odd sort of beauty.

After building a fire from whatever dry wood they had managed to scavenge, the reduced company – Alistair had not been able to find the deserter – ate a quick dinner of salted meat and rice. The dwarf boasted of the two Darkspawn he had taken down; the elf remained quiet and contemplative, his eyes still bruised with fear. Flora – who had eaten while still covered in mud – finally deigned to go and wash herself after she had sated the demands of her stomach.

The human had taken with them their spare tent during his flight into the Wilds. With a heart beating slightly quicker than was normal, Alistair set up his fellow Warden's bedroll beside his own, hoping that she would not protest at having to share a tent. Although they usually slept beside one another in the corner of the vast dormitory tent back in Ostagar; it seemed a different thing altogether when they were enclosed within canvas walls.

The elf had set up a series of tripwires and traps around their campsite; these would detect and delay any approaching Darkspawn if they made an assault on the hill. Alistair was doubtful that they would – he had been using this hill to camp upon for six months and had never been disturbed.

Nobody felt much like being sociable – it was a cold and unfriendly night, and the starlight only illuminated the lack of conversation between the disparate figures seated around the fire. Alistair tried manfully to prompt a discussion about the afternoon's fight and the nature of the enemy; the dwarf had retorted with  _they're bloody Darkspawn, lad! What else is there to say?_

Alistair wished suddenly that Flora was there – she did not initiate many conversations, but she always listened fervently and asked pertinent questions. He could  _hear_ her a short distance away – there was a freshwater spring bubbling up from a crack in the rock slightly downwards of their camp – she was humming tunelessly to herself as she scrubbed away the mud and clay.

Giving up on a sociable evening, man, dwarf and elf soon retired to their separate tents. Alistair stripped down to his sleep-trousers, set his sword beside the tent entrance and lay flat on his bedroll; gazing up at the mildewed canvas wall. There was a damp patch that looked exactly like a Mabari, and another one nearby that was the shape of Orlais – the young Warden was so preoccupied with staring at them that he nearly had a heart attack when the entrance flap lifted.

"It's me: the  _swamp beast,_ " whispered Flora, stifling a squeak as cold droplets of water rolled from the roof onto the back of her neck.

"I wondered where you'd got to," Alistair whispered back, slightly accusatory. "I thought you'd done a runner like that blasted chap from earlier!"

Flora cackled, clutching a blanket to her chest with one hand as she fastened the tent flap closed with the other.

"Ha! Where's my nightshirt? Oh, here it is. Why did I store it in my  _boot?"_

Alistair, flushing slightly as he glimpsed a pale curve of shoulder, dutifully twisted his head to give her privacy to change. He heard her humming to herself as clothing rustled; a continuation of the same tune from when she had been bathing.

When Alistair felt her lie down on the bedroll beside him, he opened his eyes and looked back up towards the ceiling. He could feel her eyes on him, their irises pale and faintly amused.

"You don't need to be polite," Flora whispered, shifting into a more comfortable position on the bedroll. "I don't mind if you see me."

Alistair swallowed, unable to stop himself from glancing sideways. The coarse wool of the nightgown clung to the ripe, supple curvature of his fellow Warden's body; showing off the high swells of her breasts and the flat plane of her abdomen. The material had rucked up above the knee, displaying several inches of creamy thigh.

Flora was gazing absentmindedly up at the canvas, tapping her fingertips gently together in a staccato rhythm. He noticed that her fingernails were bitten, and wondered if this was a nervous  _tic_ formed since she had become a Warden, or if it was a lifelong habit.

"Flo?"

She twisted her head on the lumpen cushion that served as a pillow, turning limpid, sleepy eyes on him. Loose ropes of dark red hair stretched out like seaweed across the matting, still damp from bathing.

"Mm?"

"Doesn't – doesn't your l-lover mind you sharing a tent with me?" he began, slightly hesitant. "I… I can't imagine the general being too happy about it."

Flora smiled up at a damp spot on the ceiling, darting a quick look at him from beneath dark eyelashes.

"There's no promise made between me and – and  _him,"_ she replied honestly, her northern voice soft and throaty in the shadows as she kept her response deliberately vague. "I don't think any of us are in a position to make a commitment at the moment."

She gave a wave of her small, nail-bitten hand; that somehow encompassed the Blight, the threat of the Darkspawn, the looming spectre of the final battle.

Alistair nodded, then took a deep and steadying breath; suddenly more nervous than when he was preparing to face the enemy. With the spectre of the final battle looming in the not-too-distant future, he decided to plunge onwards regardless.

"Flo?"

Flora eyed him, nestling her cheek against her hand.

"Alistair."

"You know… you know how you watched me… _you know…_  last night? Well, I'd like - I  _want_  to watch you. If you ever do it."

Alistair's cheeks flared red beneath the olive tint of his skin, yet he swallowed and kept his gaze reasonably steady. Flora also flushed slightly – she didn't understand why she was so shy when it came to her fellow recruit – but felt a corresponding twinge of excitement between her legs.

"You want to watch me?" she whispered, peering at him from beneath her lashes. "Touch myself?"

He nodded, gulping down a lump of nervous anticipation as he gazed at her.

"Or – or  _not,"_ he added, quickly. "If it makes you uncomfortable. I can go and sleep outside if you want me - to"

"Alistair," Flora replied, trying to stifle a giggle. "You can watch me. I'm happy for you to watch me. I'll do it for you right now, but…"

" _But?_ " he croaked, barely daring to breathe.

"I need to be wet _, down there,_ first. Can you touch me  _here_  for a bit?"

She reached up and tugged at the string of her nightshirt, loosening it until the fabric gave way with a soft, yielding whisper of fabric. Alistair felt as though the temperature of the tent had suddenly risen several degrees, beads of perspiration breaking out on his forehead. Her breasts were milky-pale, lightly dappled with the occasional tan freckle; high and rounded with youthful firmness. The small nipples were a delicate shade of blushing pink, and begging to be flicked with a tongue. His Warden-sister had a pair of inviting little mounds, perfectly shaped for cradling in a man's palms.

" _Maker's Breath,"_ Alistair croaked as he stared in round-eyed fascination, his cock springing to life within his sleep trousers. "Can I… can I touch them?"

She nodded, propping herself up on an elbow and smiling at him. Alistair took a deep breath – knowing that every moment would now be a struggle against shooting his seed – and reached out to slide his thumb gently around the curve of a breast. He traced the high mound with slow wonder, before dropping his thumb to trace her cleavage.

For the next half-candle, Alistair explored his fellow recruit's pert little breasts; awed and aroused in equal measure. His strong, calloused fingers moved with surprising gentility over her tender flesh; stroking, cupping and caressing. He bounced one breast in a palm, then pushed them both together to deepen her cleavage. He squeezed each in turn, wondering at their ripeness. Her nipples were given gentle flicks with sword-worn thumbs, then massaged tenderly between wondering fingers.

 _They're the same shade of pink as her lips,_ Alistair thought half-coherently to himself, pressing his lips to the ripe swell of her breast. _As that full, wanton mouth of hers; somehow both sensual and sulky at the same time. Any man would want to kiss it into a smile._

_I'll never be able to look at her lips again without thinking on these beautiful little -._

He took one in his own mouth, fixing his lips around it and beginning to suck gently. Encouraged by Flora's soft whimper, Alistair began to tongue the stiff little peak; his own cock throbbing painfully within his sleep trousers.

"Please," she whispered, hoarsely. "Don't stop, Alistair."

Alistair had no intention of stopping. He hummed gently around her breast to see how she liked the reverberations; used his teeth with exquisite gentleness on her flushed and willing nipple; pressed kisses to every inch of creamy cleavage.

He was so absorbed in his fellow recruit's pretty breasts that he did not notice when the elf ducked his head around the canvas to inform them that he was going hunting. The elf took in the scene in an instant – their mage sprawled blissfully on the bedroll, breasts exposed and a damp crease of excitement in her smallclothes; the former Templar bent over her with his tongue teasing the tip of her nipple. The elf was not taken aback – he had spied on her rubbing Alistair's clothed cock when they had stopped earlier for lunch – and withdrew with a little smirk.

"I- I'm ready now," Flora whispered, flushed with need. Alistair reluctantly lifted his mouth from her nipple – he would have happily fondled and played with her breasts until dawn – and gazed down her with heavily-lidded eyes.

"You're… you're ready? Are you  _wet?"_ he asked her throatily, lips shaping the unfamiliar words.

She nodded, reaching downwards to fumble with the waistband of her smallclothes. Alistair put out a hand to stop her, his hazel irises several shades darker with lust.

" _I'll_  take them off," he told her, and there was an unusual vein of command running through the words. "Maker's Breath."

Alistair shifted himself to a more advantageous position, reaching for the lantern set beside the tent entrance and shifting it so that its soft amber glow illuminated her thighs. Not yet satisfied, he nudged the canvas flap several inches to the side; letting moonlight spill across the creamy flesh.

Now his fellow recruit lay languid before him, lips parted and cheeks flushed, her rich red hair strewn across the blankets. Her breasts were mottled pink from his sucking little kisses, and her nipples were gleaming with his saliva. Alistair's eyes dropped between her legs and he inhaled a sharp breath; focusing on the saturated strip of linen nestled at the top of her thighs.

"Flo," he breathed, unable to stop himself from pressing a gentle finger into the wet cloth. "You're soaking. Is this… is this just from me touching you?"

"Mm."

Flora smiled shyly at him, watching Alistair lift the finger to his mouth and taste her excitement. Something primal flickered across his normally kind and honest face as he savoured her scent; his other hand dropped instinctively towards his own waistband. For a moment, Flora was utterly convinced that he was going to mount her there and then. She felt a twist of anticipation in her belly, and parted her thighs in readiness.

To her slight disappointment, Alistair's more civilised side regained control. He removed his hand from his trousers and shifted position, giving himself a direct view between her legs. A moment later, he adjusted himself once again, seeking the best possible angle of observation.

Once he was satisfied, Alistair reached out to grip the waistband of Flora's smallclothes; sliding them down her creamy thighs. He did not stop at her knees, but kept moving the smalls to the very end of her legs; hooking them over her ankles. After double-checking that Flora's eyes were already closed in heady anticipation, Alistair hastily tucked his sister-warden's knickers into his own pack.

"Now, touch yourself," he instructed, throatily. "I want to… to watch you come for me."

She opened her eyes ever-so-slightly, peering at her friend in curious amusement beneath her lashes. Flora was not used to hearing Alistair speak so directly; there was a tone to his voice that was oddly  _authoritative._

Obediently, she dropped a hand between her legs and let her fingers curl lazily within the velvet folds nestled there. They were pleasingly slick in response to Alistair's clumsy, enthusiastic tonguing of her breast; heat and desire pulsed from her core in waves.

Unable to stop herself, she bit her lip and smiled in pleasure as her fingers continued to explore this most intimate of areas. Duncan had taught her well the name and purpose of each part; he had spent collective hours with her knees bent over his shoulders and his face buried between her thighs. On more than one occasion he had roused her from sleep by lapping lovingly at her folds; she had awoken whimpering and desperate for orgasm. Once it had become apparent that Flora welcomed such attention; Duncan had begun to ease his cock into his sleeping lover's folds, rocking gently in and out as she dozed. Sometimes she had opened her eyes to find her own hips bucking reflexively in response to his slow, deep thrusting. On other occasions, she had woken up with a deliciously tender cunt; blushing and yet delighted that her commander had enjoyed himself between her legs at some point during the night.

Flora's little pearl of pleasure gave a throb of longing as she thought about her commander; she swirled a slick fingertip over the hard bead of flesh and let out a moan.

"Maker's Breath," croaked Alistair, licking his dry lips as he gazed between her thighs; savouring the sound of each wet caress.  _"Maker's Breath._ Fuck- "

Flora wanted to tell him that she would happily take his cock in that instant; in fact, she would  _relish_  the chance to work that broad, meaty length into her little cunt as best as they could manage. Yet she was too consumed with her own pleasure, enchanted by the delicious sensations she was coaxing from her swollen clitoris. She was doing her best to emulate the expert touch of Duncan; who could bring her to a bone-liquefying intense orgasm within minutes. There was nothing that the commander enjoyed more than rewarding his young recruit with a quick, powerful climax in the middle of the day's usual schedule. Often, he would take her around the back of a tent or behind a convenient pillar, slide his hand down the front of her trousers and bring her to orgasm in stark daylight.

Closing her eyes and clearing her mind, Flora began to fondle herself in earnest; knees bent wide apart to give Alistair the best possible view.

A flushed-faced Alistair had repositioned himself, moving the lantern closer so that it bathed his fellow recruit's nude body in amber light. He took a moment to adjust the lens inside the lantern so that it illuminated her glistening folds and over-stimulated clitoris. Flora's fingers were working frantically between her legs; tugging at her little pearl; gently massaging a swollen fold: The wet sounds coming from her lovingly teased cunt were beguiling and incessant.

"Come on," Alistair whispered thickly, head bowed and eyes blazing like a brand taken fresh from the fire. "Come on, Flo. I want to see it happen."

Flora let out a strangled croak, her head twisting from side to side against the bedroll; the deep red hair a smouldering volcanic mass beneath her head.

"Oh," she whimpered, arcing her hips reflexively upwards as she drove herself relentlessly towards orgasm. "Alistair."

The next moment, she felt a point of pressure against her soaked folds; a focused push into her public bone. Glancing downwards, she saw Alistair pressing his finger repeatedly against the soft, ripe parts of her cunt, blazing determination writ across his handsome face. In her half-delirious state, Flora realised that he was trying to locate the entrance to her little slit; knowing that it was located between her legs but unsure exactly  _where_.

She was about to lift her hips and guide him in when his finger slipped suddenly deeper within the constrictions of tight, wet flesh. A look of intense focus replaced the initial grin of triumph; with a deep breath, Alistair slid his finger to the second knuckle.

Flora let out a half-gasp, strands of hair plastered to her sweaty cheeks; her eyes widening as he began to push the calloused digit in and out. The wet sucking noise echoing around the canvas walls was almost obscene; the walls of her cunt clinging to the penetrating finger.

"Keep touching yourself," he instructed her thickly, the powerful muscles in his arm flexing as he moved his arm. "I want to feel you come."

Flora obediently stroked herself as he fingered her, a dizzying kaleidoscope of fantasies running through her head. She thought about Duncan's kisses; slow, honeyed and possessive, his thigh nudging between her legs as their tongues worked leisurely. She imagined taking Alistair's cock for the first time; climbing on top of her fellow recruit and claiming his virginity as Duncan had so determinedly taken hers.

Then, just as Alistair began to pump his finger a little harder, Flora fantasised about being in bed with  _both_ men. Breathless, she imagined being sandwiched between their muscular bodies; Duncan lovingly thrusting between her oiled buttocks while Alistair enjoyed the tight slickness of her cunt.

Her climax arrived without warning; her entire body trembling as wave upon wave of pleasure surged outwards from her core. She cried out her pleasure into the night, the sound of her orgasm shattering the soft quiet of night.

Alistair felt the muscles spasm around his finger; accompanied by a sudden rush of liquid heat as his fellow young Warden finally reached the peak of her pleasure. He kept up the gentle thrusting throughout the final throes of climax, right up until she slumped back dazed against the bedroll. Only then did he slowly withdrew his finger, bringing it immediately to his mouth to taste her.

She watched him sample her excitement; a flicker of primal lust passing across his features as he savoured the sweet, honeyed taste.

"Flo," he said at last, his voice hoarse and intimate. "That was the most – most amazing thing I've ever seen. Thank you."

Flora smiled up at him, still caught in the dreamy aftermath of orgasm.

"I like your finger," she whispered, her voice equally soft. "But, next time, I want your cock."


	26. Reunited

Meanwhile, within the privacy of the commander's tent back at Ostagar, the Warden-Commander was obsessing over thoughts of what his young recruits could be doing to each other in the depths of the Wilds. Night had drawn in quickly now that autumn was here and he had dismissed his steward and secretary earlier than usual, changing into his sleep trousers and retiring for the night. The campbed creaked beneath him; testament to the strain placed on its wooden joints over the past week.

Duncan had originally planned to spend the night replying to letters; his desk had been set up with parchment and ink-pen in preparation. However, he soon found that he could not concentrate on scribing a response to the Marches commander, his mind kept drifting to a little mildewed tent pitched somewhere in the depths of the Wilds.

 _I hope Alistair's taking his time to pleasure that lovely body properly,_ he thought to himself, with a strange mixture of envy and arousal.  _My qalbi is such a sensual little creature, she loves being fondled and petted; though of course she's used to my practised touch. I may need to show Alistair how to properly stimulate her pearl of pleasure._

_I'd put coin on the wager that she's naked in his arms right now. That's how it should have been; two inexperienced young people exploring each other's bodies, stroking and rubbing, pushing fingers into tight and unfamiliar places._

_Ah, but I'll never regret it. Showing that beautiful girl the ways of adult pleasure has been one of the greatest privileges of my life._

_Maker, those soft, sulky lips around my cock this morning. She was late to meet Alistair because she was desperate to taste me one last time. She'd sucked me to hardness as I slept; I woke up to ardent little kisses on the bulb of my cock, her tongue tracing every contour._

Duncan reached down, unbuttoning his sleep trousers with a clumsy hand and drawing out his painfully hard length. After a week of kisses from his gifted young healer, he had regained all the sensitivity of youth – every deadened nerve ending was renewed, flaring into life with each caress.

 _I wonder what they're doing now,_ he thought to himself, making a fist around his cock and beginning to slide it up and down.  _I wonder if he's mounted her yet? She's wanted him for weeks – she blushes at each mention of his name – and she'd readily open her legs for him._

_My little mender looks so beautiful when she rides me. That rich crimson hair tumbling down her back and a smile of bliss curling across her face as she glides up and down on my cock. I love it when she's about to come; she nestles herself on my chest and humps me like a rabbit; ripe buttocks bouncing as she lets out these gorgeous little moans._

Duncan let out a soft groan, envisioning his young lover rocking back and forth on Alistair's shaft, ecstasy scrawled across her face as small, wanton pants escaped her throat.

 _I have to engineer those two a private location where I can watch them undetected_ , he thought to himself, feverishly.  _One where I can get a good angle to view the full penetration._   _I've still a half-dozen al-rani crystals left to capture the moment._

The  _al-rani_ crystal that Duncan was referring to was an old Rivaini charm, little known outside his homeland. When combined with lyrium – a substance which he had access to – the crystals were able to capture a visual memory, albeit one with no sound. When submerged in a bowl of water in a darkened room, the memory was replayed on the surface of the water.

The thought of the  _al-rani crystal_ spurred Duncan to temporarily abandon his stroking, setting up the bowl and water atop the dresser. Retrieving the crystal from its carefully labelled pouch, he placed it at the bottom of the tin receptacle. He could already feel his cock twitch in anticipatory excitement as he placed two candles at either side of the bowl.

The residual heat from the candle gradually seeped into the bowl; the water shimmered with a sudden, almost oily gleam before an image coalesced with startling clarity. Duncan leaned forward over the surface of the bowl, taking his heavy shaft in a practised hand as he focused his attention on the reflected image of his young mender.

_His qalbi was lying on the blankets beneath him – he had been standing at the foot of the bed, with the crystal in hand. She was clad in her nightshirt, the linen rucked up around her thighs, and her hair was strewn in thick, dark red ropes across the pillows. Her head was canted to one side – there was no sound, but she was clearly listening to him explain the purpose of the crystal. After a moment, she waved her fingers at it and then let out a soundless giggle._

_After another silent instruction from him, Flora reached up and began to unbutton her nightshirt, her small fingers making quick work of the buttons. His hand reached down to peel back each each half of the nightgown, revealing a pair of ripe breasts, a creamy abdomen and a pubic mound covered with soft, downy hair. She smiled shyly up at him but made no effort to cover herself, letting him focus the crystal on the most intimate parts of her body. Moments later, she had parted her thighs to show him the delicate little folds nestled within._

Duncan let out an involuntary groan as he stroked himself, recalling how he had fondled those sweet nether lips that very morning; bringing her to her sixth delicious climax of the night. He hoped that Alistair was not mishandling his  _qalbi's_ sensitivelittle pearl, made tender from overstimulation. Returning his attention to the bowl, he began to tug at himself in more earnest.

_She had rolled over on the blankets now after a silent instruction; showing off her high, rounded buttocks. Duncan's palm came down in a quick, light smack, the firm flesh quivering at the contact. This was followed by two more spanks, the creamy flesh slowly pinkening beneath his firm affection. Then his hand reached down, the fingers gripping a pert buttock and tugging it gently to the side. The crystal was focused on the wrinkled pinprick within; Duncan's broad, saliva-dampened finger coming forward to give it a tender rub._

_Then, as instructed, his qalbi had rolled over again and gazed up at him from beneath her eyelashes; unconsciously deploying each feminine gambit at her disposal to seduce the man before her. She bit at her succulent lower lip, a pretty flush rising to the creamy mounds of her breasts._

_The next minute, she had parted her thighs to show off the neat little folds of her cunt, already glistening with anticipation. Unable to resist, the crystal dropped for a moment as Duncan reached forwards to stroke the soft petals of flesh with a calloused tawny finger, tenderly massaging her half-hidden clitoris until it stood out swollen and pink._

_When the crystal refocused, Flora's shy smile had slid into a soft moan of delight; her lips parted and her cheeks flooded with colour. After an unheard question she reached down to cup her breasts, mouth moving as she replied. Although the sound had not been preserved it was clear that she was describing the hardness of her nipples, pressing into them with her thumbs to show how they sprung back to attention. Duncan's hand made another appearance, a saliva-dampened finger moistening each raspberry pink tip in turn, rubbing them until they gleamed in the candlelight._

_The view pulled back, far enough to take in much of the young Cousland's creamy nakedness. After another soft command, she reached a hand between her legs and shyly fondled herself; only the blush on her cheeks indicated her awareness of the recording crystal. Soon, though, the waves of pleasure emanating from her core overrode her inhibitions and the teyrn's daughter started to stroke herself furiously and without inhibition. After several minutes of intense self-pleasuring, Flora orgasmed in full view of the crystal's lens, crying out in noiseless ecstasy as her hips convulsed._

_Once she had reclaimed her breath the Warden-Commander's redheaded mage smiled dreamily up at him, her mouth moving in an inaudible request. She reached up her non-occupied hand towards her mentor – the fingers slender, the nails rather poignantly bitten – and bit at her lower lip, hopefully._

The next moment, the crystal's view dropped sharply to one side, just capturing the movement of the Rivaini's olive-toned body as he took his young lover in his arms. The crystal refocused on a fold of discarded blanket, nestled on one corner of the mattress. Moments later, the view began to jolt nauseatingly up and down as the bed started to move in rapid, forceful rhythm.

The Warden-Commander was no longer looking at the reflected image; eyes closed as he relied on the richness of his newly restored memory to fuel his self-pleasure. With one palm flat on the dresser to steady himself, he fisted his cock with a low and continuous moan; the wet slap of skin against skin echoing lewdly around the tent.

 _I miss those full, sulky lips around me,_ he thought hungrily, chasing the peak of a tantalising potent orgasm.  _My qalbi takes my cock in her mouth with shy wonder, which quickly then turns to delight when she sees the effect it has on me._

_I miss those perky little breasts, each one a perfect mouthful. That honeyed cunt, sweeter than nectar; the warmth of her thighs clenched around my shoulders. My amira loves being lapped to a climax; she comes so beautifully on my tongue._

_I miss that sweet, shy half-smile; which emerges so rarely in public but which can be coaxed forth so readily when we're alone._

_Oh, fuck-_

Without warning the Warden-Commander ejaculated violently; several white gobs caught in his fingers, but a few stray splatters landing against the canvas tent wall. It was such a powerful climax that he bent over for a moment, inhaling raggedly to reclaim his breath.

After milking the last few drops of his spend, Duncan wiped his hands and then carefully secreted the crystal away.

Suddenly weary – and eager for the next day to arrive, when his  _qalbi_ would be returning – he decided to retire. The narrow campbed looked cold and unappealing without the ripe, eager body of his young lover nestled within the blankets.

 _I wonder if she's kissed him,_ the Commander thought wistfully, envisioning his two junior Wardens writhing frantically together on some distant bedroll.

_We spoke about Alistair touching her breasts, stroking her soft folds; even about him mounting her with inexperienced ardour. She was happy to let him try all of those adult pleasures._

_Yet, we never discussed kissing._

_I've the sense that Alistair is the romantic sort. I don't think he'd push that impressive cock into her without sharing a few tender kisses first._

For reasons which he did not dare to examine too closely, this latter thought rung a hollow peal within Duncan's chest. Taking a deep, steadying breath and forcing the sudden surge of his heartbeat to settle, he poured himself a half-measure of dwarven whiskey.

 _You fool,_ he thought to himself, fiercely.  _You old fool._

The next day seemed to pass both swift and excruciatingly slowly; Ostagar's usual daily rhythms elongating and contracting to match the Commander's shifting mood. Duncan performed all the tasks that were expected of a senior Grey Warden – the inspection of the troops, the meetings with both Cailan and Loghain, the patrol around the fortress defences – but his mind returned continually to the small party making their way back through the Wilds.

Cailan had been his usual petulant self during their meeting in the Royal tent, demanding to know why the Darkspawn had not yet made their final assault. Duncan had retorted that he did not have a  _psychic insight_ to the Archdemon's plans; although the king had not been as far from the truth as the Commander had led him to believe. Duncan  _was_ certain that the last big push was coming, he could feel a growing prickle of anticipation in the back of his mind – yet this was not something that he wished to share with the king.

Cailan had finished the meeting with a grumble and a declaration that he was going down to the drill area. Loghain entered the tent as the king departed, the general issuing a snide – albeit muttered – comment that official correspondence was  _clearly_ going to be neglected for another day.

The meeting between the two commanders followed precedent – neither man liked or trusted the other, but were able to summon enough fortitude to keep the conversation civil. Mac Tir could not help but deliver his usual barbed comments about the unlikelihood of a true Blight.

_Darkspawn have always risen to the surface! It doesn't mean that there's a true insurgency._

_After all no one has seen your Archdemon yet, Rivaini._

Duncan had less patience than usual for the general's obstinacy. He had retorted that it did not matter if the king's  _father-in-law_ did not believe him, so long as the king  _did._

Loghain had issued a snort, leaning back in his chair and turning his shrewd Mac Tir gaze on the greying senior Warden.

"You're  _unusually_  testy today," he observed, archly. "Missing your little redheaded mage?"

"Yes," replied Duncan bluntly, not bothering to lie for Loghain. "Unlike some- " here, he eyed the general pointedly- "I'm not used to a cold bed."

The sun inched its way slow and languid into the horizon, casting a muted ochre wash over the forested valleys surrounding Ostagar. The scattering of snow on the highest hillsides caught the light like a painter's sweep of gold; it was almost beautiful enough for the temporary residents of the fortress to forget the grimness of their situation.

The Warden-Commander was stood in the main courtyard, half-listening to the complaints of the commissary. His attention was captured by the circling of dark-winged birds overhead.

 _Ravens,_ he thought to himself, watching them swoop around the crumbling parapets.  _Clever birds. They know that the mess tent has just finished serving, and the scraps will soon be unguarded._

_When I travelled in Rivain, I met a man who sold chanting goshawks. They were intelligent enough to open the latch on a cage and free themselves. They had to be kept chained._

Just then, one of the scouts in the gate-tower called something unintelligible down to the guard at the base. The ancient iron portcullis was raised in slow, creaking increments and the drawbridge lowered; indicating that a party had arrived on the other side.

Duncan abruptly broke off his conversation with the commissary, leaving the man mid-sentence with a swift  _excuse me._ Even in the half-light, he could see the silhouettes of horses and riders arriving between the crumbling gatehouses; swathed in travel cloaks and shadow.

The Warden-Commander counted the number of horses – five, as was expected – but to his alarm, two of the horses were riderless and attached by lead-reins. Duncan felt his stomach drop unpleasantly, a sudden cold grip digging itself into his gut.

"Alistair," he called across the cobblestones, striding towards the gathered party as squires ran out to take the horses. "Alistair, where- "

Then the Warden-Commander saw his mage huddled against Alistair's chest, her head drooping like a crimson anemone. She was utterly still and for a single, heart-stopping moment, Duncan thought that she was dead.

"What happened?" the Rivaini asked, a strange timbre to his voice. "Is she- "

Then the commander saw Flora's breath misting against the steel plate of Alistair's armour, and he felt a surge of relief so strong that it made him dizzy.

"No, but she's out cold," explained his junior officer, patting his unconscious sister-warden gently on the shoulder. "Maker's Breath, what a mess. I'm sorry, Duncan – I know how important she is."

Duncan stepped forward and reached up to take his limp-bodied mage, cradling her slender frame easily beside his chest. Despite her slightness, the Warden-Commander was relieved to feel the usual warm sturdiness of her body against him; belying the diminutive build, his  _qalbi_  was not a fragile or delicate creature. He could see a clump of dark red hair matted with something darker and more sinister on the side of her head; the back of her neck was coated in dried blood.

 _At least it's a lump, and not a dent,_ Duncan thought to himself with a slight, nauseating lurch of relief.  _A lump will subside, but a dent cannot be regrown._

" _Badha'a,"_ he murmured, brushing aside a clump of hair to inspect the wound. "What happened, Alistair?"

Alistair grimaced, the worry writ raw on his open, handsome face. He dismounted in a smooth and practised slide, reflexively checking his horse's hooves before releasing it to the care of the squire.

"The human – Bulgas – ran away after we were ambushed by the Darkspawn yesterday," the young man explained. "I looked for him, but he'd vanished into the Wilds. We thought that he'd gone for good, but he popped up again when we went to collect the horses – turned out he'd been following us the whole time, trying to find the way out of the Wilds. Anyway, when I refused to give him a horse to flee on, he grew angry. Lunged forwards to where Flo had just untied her horse, clubbed her on the back of the head with the pommel of his blade, and clambered up onto the saddle."

"I hope he didn't get far," replied Duncan, a steely vein running through the words. Alistair shook his head, in silent confirmation of the unanswered part of the question.

"Well, what do you expect to happen when you recruit horse-thieves and murderers?"

The new voice – dry, northern and vaguely amused – cut through the massif shadow. Duncan gritted his teeth, forcing himself not to make a hugely unprofessional gesture at Mac Tir as he loitered nearby.

"Is the little lass alright?" the general then enquired, redeeming himself a fraction. "Not her fault that her commander has poor taste in conscripts."

Duncan brushed aside the bloodied clump of hair at the back of Flora's neck, eyeing the ragged wound. Instead of forming a scab, the skin itself seemed to have partly woven itself together, as though bound by some invisible thread. The faintest gleam of golden energy could be seen within the torn flesh; as Flora's own peculiar brand of magic busied itself mending her wound.

"She'll be fine," Duncan said heavily, feeling his grip automatically tighten on his young lover as he spotted the approach of a harried-looking healer from the infirmary. "I'll take care of this, sister."

The greying mage gathered her breath and blinked, coming to a halt before the commander.

"You don't want her brought to the infirmary tent?"

Duncan stared down at the elderly healer, his eyes set dark and glittering against his olive skin, the corners of his mouth pulled taut and utterly unamused.

"No. I understand how her peculiar brand of magic works, and it requires no outside intervention. Thank you."

Overhead the stars were emerging like ignited lanterns; pinpricks of light burning in defiance of the gathered shadows. The air was chill, a layer of frost forming on the canvas walls of the tents. Those within shivered and pulled their blankets tight around themselves, missing even the anaemic heat of an autumnal sun.

The Warden-Commander carried his unconscious mage to his own tent with Alistair on his heels like an anxious Mabari. Outside the senior warden's tent, the younger officer hovered on the damp grass; clearly reluctant to leave while his companion was still limp and lifeless.

"Get some rest, lad," Duncan said, feeling an odd twist of something –  _jealousy? –_ within his chest as he saw the dark circles beneath Alistair's eyes. "Didn't you, ah, sleep well last night?"

"I slept fine," replied Alistair, not detecting the undertone. "I'm just worried about Flo. It's my fault, I should have seen him go for her- "

"It's nobody's fault but that  _bak'har_ horse thief, and you made him pay well enough," Duncan replied, firmly. "Now go and get something to eat. I'll send word when she wakes."

The inside of the senior commander's tent was equally cold to any belonging to a junior officer. Duncan could see his own breath crystallise in the air before him as he carried his unconscious lover across to the campbed, lowering her onto the blankets with especial care. With the swift efficiency of familiarity, he retrieved his matchlock and lit several lanterns; positioning one beside the bed, another atop the dresser, and the last dangling from the ceiling pole on a leather strap.

The soft night rhythms of Ostagar echoed around the tent; the hollow cry of an owl, the gentle crackling of the braziers and the muffled conversation between the soldiers standing watch. Duncan swallowed a quick gulp of spiced ale to warm his innards, then returned to the campbed; perching himself on the lumpen mattress alongside Flora's limp body.

 _She must have been a comely child,_ he thought to himself as he moved strand of hair gently from his lover's full, sulky mouth; the lips slightly parted to take in a shallow breath.

_I imagine she'd have stuck out like a sore thumb in whatever isolated backwater she was hidden away in. Mustn't bring shame to the Cousland name, after all._

_What was the name of the village she keeps enthusing about? Some saltwater fish. Haddock?_

Duncan reached out to feel the collar of her navy tunic and immediately grimaced, rubbing the damp material between finger and thumb. Flora's skin was clammy and cold underneath, a shade more pallid than usual.

With an odd sense of guilt, he began to unfasten her blouse; removing each piece of clothing with careful respect. She wore no breastband - the high, pert breasts were too small to require structural support – but Duncan was careful not to gaze too long at her nakedness. After inching her smallclothes down her thighs, the Warden-Commander reached beneath the bed and pulled out all the clean bedding stored there; wrapping up his limp lover tightly amidst wool blankets woven in Fereldan patterns.

Once Flora had been bundled up protectively against the nocturnal chill, Duncan leaned forward and impulsively pressed his lips to the centre of her pale, smooth forehead. Pulling up the blanket around her shoulders, he tilted her head gently to one side to check on the progress of her self-healing. To his astonishment the wound had almost knitted itself entirely closed, pink new flesh weaving together with only a smear of blood to indicate the violence of the blow.

"Clever girl," he said out loud, even as a sudden jolt of anger towards the human, Bulgas, rocketed up his spine.

While waiting for his healer to wake, Duncan returned to his desk and began some long-overdue replies to various items of correspondence. A messenger brought a missive from the king and the commander dictated a perfunctory reply while simultaneously writing on a sheet of nearby parchment.

The messenger departed and the autumn night drew in; the rich navy sky richening into a gleaming, star-pricked black. The midnight watch had just changed – Duncan heard his own guard exchange places with two new arrivals – when there was a movement from the bed that caught his eye. He put down his quill, turning just in time to see Flora pushing herself upright with the blanket rumpled around her shoulders.

"Evening,  _qalbi,"_ the Warden-Commander observed, rising to his feet and crossing the rush matting. "I hear we've been getting into fights with horse thieves."

His light-hearted tone was meant to mask the vein of intense relief in the words, yet Flora did not share his easy demeanour. She blinked at him, then at her strange surroundings. Her pretty face was pale and frightened, the wide grey eyes as round as saucers. Stray ropes of dark crimson hair were strewn over her bare shoulders; she put up a hand to tentatively touch the back of her head. As he watched, her face contorted in the way it had done after the horrors of the Darkspawn nest: the corners of the sulky mouth turning down, the eyes filling up with tears as a bright pink flush rose to her cheeks.

"Where –  _what- "_

Swift as an unchained goshawk, Duncan lowered himself to sit on the campbed; pulling his bewildered young mender into his lap and folding her within his embrace. Flora wound her arms around him like an octopus, gulping down air like a drowning man.

" _Shh_ , love," he murmured against her hair, startled at how easily this seemed to come to him. "You're safe, I'm here."

Flora, who was used to keeping  _herself_ safe and had let herself down so completely, pressed her face into the rough linen weave of Duncan's sleep-tunic, inhaling its smoky, masculine scent. She could feel his palm between her bare shoulder-blades, stroking up and down from the nape of her neck to the base of her spine in soft, even repetition; like the ebb and flow of the tide.

"What happened?" she whispered, listening to the slow, strong thud of her mentor's heart beneath his ribcage. The stoic and even rhythm was oddly comforting, and she felt herself matching her breathing to its regular beat.

Duncan pressed his lips to the tanged hair atop her head, more tender than he had ever allowed himself to be before. He could feel her calming in his arms, the tension gradually draining away as she rested her cheek against his shoulder.

"The man Bulgas attempted to rob a horse," he replied quietly, tracing the line of her spine with a callused thumb. "He struck you over the head when you weren't looking. He lives no longer."

Flora sniffed, blinking as the last remnants of tears spilled their way down her cheeks.

"I've been attacked from behind before," she whispered, as he lifted a thick rope of her own hair to pat the tears dry. "Why didn't my spirits help me?"

She was clearly not expecting an answer from Duncan. Moments later her head tilted to the side and her eyes distant as she listened to a response echo within the confines of her mind.

"Oh," his spirit healer breathed after a moment, with a miserable sniff. "It was a  _lesson._ I turned my back on someone who had betrayed us; it was naïve and foolish and I… I won't do it again."

Flora put up a hand to the back of her head, brushing the hair aside and probing the base of her skull with her fingers. There was a faint, residual ache, but nothing tangible to the touch.

"They have healed you,  _amira,"_ Duncan replied, brushing his thumb down the fine-boned contour of her cheek. "Ah, my sweet girl. I felt my heart seize up in my chest when I saw you slumped in Alistair's arms earlier."

"Has it started again?" she whispered, tilting her face towards him in response to his caress. Duncan half-smiled, his fingers lingering on the elegant line of her jaw.

"Aye, just now, love."

The high spots of fear on her cheeks had softened into a more mellow flush; the redheaded mage peered up at him through her eyelashes in shy pleasure.

"As your mender," she breathed, curling her arm about his neck. "I'm pleased to hear it."

To this moment, Duncan had stopped himself from initiating a kiss with his young lover. He guessed that she had spent the previous night exploring new grounds with Alistair – as he had suggested – and was aware that she might no longer feel comfortable in the arms of her commander.

Now, Flora herself leaned forward; hungrily seeking out her older partner's mouth with her own. Both lovers let out a soft sigh of relief as their lips came together, working in slow, mutual desire as they embraced. Their tongues writhed with loving familiarity; wet and lewdly loud in the quiet shadow of the tent.

Duncan felt a surge of relief as they kissed, anchoring his naked recruit in his lap with strong arms.

"I missed you," she whispered as they finally parted for air, her lips swollen and tender from Duncan's affection.

"And I you," he replied with a guttural edge to his voice, leaning forward to press more kisses against the curve of her neck, her collarbone, the hollow of her throat. "I'm going to kiss every inch of you before dawn,  _qalbi._ I hope you weren't planning on leaving this bed."

Flora let out a whimper as he let his tongue swirl in slow, teasing patterns down her neck. Her body had already betrayed her arousal - her nipples jutted out in little stiff peaks, and there was a damp spot on Duncan's breeches where excitement had leaked from her cleft.

"No," she breathed, rubbing herself wantonly against her commander's clothed, erect cock. "I missed you so much while I was away."

"Even though you had a handsome young man in your arms at night?" he murmured in her ear, both jealous and oddly aroused at the thought of competing with the bastard prince.

She smiled at him, the blush deepening as he tested her wetness with a pair of gently scissoring fingers.

"Tell me,  _qalbi._ What did he do to you?"


	27. Pleasure By Proxy

Duncan had never been a masochist, but found himself desperate to hear every detail of what his two young recruits had done in the privacy of their tent. It was a strange, primal curiosity; his mouth watered in anticipation yet he also felt a soft curdling of jealousy within his gut.

Flora blushed, her eyes losing focus as various intimate moments from the past two days rose to the forefront of her memory. She nestled herself against Duncan's chest, a low, honeyed throb pulsing pleasantly between her legs as she recalled.

"I stroked him through his breeches until he came," she whispered, remembering how Alistair's breath had hitched in his throat as she rubbed the full length of his shaft. "And he sucked on my nipple for a bit."

Duncan's cock was painfully hard within his trousers, yet he thrust his own pleasure to the side to focus vicariously on his partner.

"How did he suck on it, baby?" he asked, thickly. "I hope he wasn't too rough with my  _qalbi's_ sweet nipple."

To illustrate his point, the Warden-Commander reached down to cup his lover's small, high breast in a single palm, admiring the contrast in the tones of their skin. He brushed a thumb over Flora's nipple, feeling it stiff and eager for stimulation.

"Alistair kissed it at first," she replied, recalling how her foot-taller brother-warden had needed to hunch over to lower his head to her breast. "Three times in a row. Then he licked it, like- "

His mender reached down and caught his wrist between her fingers, lifting his hand to her lips. Almost reverently, she began to flick her tongue over his callused thumb; lapping at it while gazing up at him with pale, dreamy eyes. A few moments later, she began to suck softly on the nail, interrupting the motion to deliver the occasional gentle kiss.

Duncan let out a slightly strangled groan, tightening his grip around Flora's waist and positioning her more firmly atop his clothed cock. He could feel the heat from her naked cleft through his breeches; she had instinctively rocked herself against him while recanting the story.

"And what did you do,  _zahra?"_ he murmured, delivering a succession of slow, lingering kisses to her neck. "Did you show him that pretty cunt?"

Flora blushed even as she nodded, tilting her head while he bit gently at her earlobe. To her relief, she could feel his hand snaking downwards to unfasten the buttons of his breeches – soon, she would be back where she belonged; bouncing contentedly atop her mentor's thick, tawny cock.

"I came for him in the night," she whispered, unable to stop herself from letting out a squeak of anticipation. "And again in the morning. And then we went behind a tree at lunchtime and he took my breeches down. He almost put his cock in me then but I think he lost his nerve at the last minute. Or he didn't want to do it with the others listening."

Flora recalled how her brother-warden had positioned himself between her legs as she lay back on the dried autumn leaves. She had been slick with anticipation; eagerly awaiting the first press of Alistair's swollen cockhead against her eager slit.

Just as her brother-warden had positioned himself, they heard the dwarf strike up a conversation with the elf about the bluntness of his ax. Alistair had grimaced, glancing to the side; Flora had watched mournfully as the ten deliciously thick inches of veiny flesh shrunk before her eyes.

 _Not here,_ he'd said.  _Later._

"My poor  _qalbi,"_ murmured Duncan, petting his young lover gently between her legs as she purred for him. "This little cunt must have been aching in frustration. I wager fingers were no substitute for cock, hm?"

Flora shook her head, biting the full lower lip as she watched Duncan's hand grope possessively over her cleft.

"No. Ooh, your hand is  _freezing_."

The corner of the Warden-Commander's mouth tugged upwards; he deliberately let his cold thumb rest on the heated little bud of her clitoris. She let out a whimper, her eyes widening in startled shock and arousal.

"Did he kiss you,  _amira?"_ he asked, keeping his voice deliberately even. "While he fingered you?"

Flora shook her head, turning her pale eyes on him; still remarkably solemn despite the bloom of desire on her cheeks.

"Of course not," she replied, as though it were a given. " _You're_ the one that kisses me."

Duncan felt a bubble of righteous joy burst within his ribs; a surge of self-interest flooding his veins like hot lead. Letting the heat pulsing from her cunt warm his thumb, he massaged the slick little bead tenderly; bringing his lips close to her neck.

"That's right,  _qalbi,"_ he murmured, interspersing each word with a lingering kiss. "I'm willing to share your pretty breasts and honeyed slit with the boy - " he touched each part as he named it – "but I want that mouth – mm, and this tight little ass – for my own."

Flora let out a whimper of pleasure as he petted her, squirming on his lap with her head tilted back. Duncan leaned forward to capture her mouth; still thrilled by her declaration that she saved her kisses for him. The melding of their lips was soft and sensual; a slow and romantic working of tongues that neither wanted to end.

"Maker," he breathed as they finally – reluctantly - parted, flushed and panting. "You have bewitched me,  _amira._ You haunt me when you are not with me."

She smiled dreamily, her gaze focused on where two broad olive fingers had just slid gently between her folds.

"How many fingers did he push inside you, baby?" Duncan murmured, savouring the clinging heat of her cunt around his knuckles. "Did he work them fast or slow?"

"One finger at first, and slowly," Flora recalled, remembering how Alistair had nudged an inexperienced fingertip around her slick folds until finally locating the entrance to her cunt. "In the morning, he used two fingers. And it was a lot quicker."

She remembered the blazing determination on Alistair's face, the raw muscle of his battle-hardened bicep repurposed to pump his wrist as rapidly as possible.

Duncan's cock was now throbbing and painful; desperate for stimulation. He curved his fingers within her, seeking out the little rumple of flesh that marked her most sensitive spot. Flora moaned, liquid in his arms, surrendering herself wholly to her greying commander.

"Did you come for him?" he whispered, simultaneously working the buttons of his breeches.

She nodded, unable to suppress a squeak of anticipation at the prospect of her mentor's cock.

"More than once?"

"Three times," she confessed, remembering how she had cried out his name into the grey light of dawn. Alistair had let out a strangled gasp as his cock shuddered within his breeches; splattering the coarse wool with a burst of unexpected seed.

"Good lad," Duncan replied, pressing a kiss to her neck as he drew out the full broad length of his terracotta-hued cock; the head exposed and gleaming with moisture. "Did he ask you to touch his cock?"

"Not yet," she whispered back, slithering down between his legs as the blankets tangled around them. "But he doesn't hide it anymore when he touches himself. And he let me feel his – his- "

Flora made a gesture, blushing. She was referring to Alistair's heavy sac; which he had shown her after she had expressed curiosity. She had cupped the meaty warmth in her palm; squeezed it gently; traced the throbbing outline with a thumb. She had wondered if she would be able to take them in her mouth, as she did with her commander. Duncan's sac was a fraction smaller, but with a heavier contents.

Duncan himself now leaned back against the cushions, settling himself in a comfortable position on the mattress as he prepared to be pleasured. Originally, he had intended to begin the evening by sampling the sweetness of her honeyed cunt; but his little  _qalbi_ had taken the initiative and she was eager to take his cock in her mouth.

At the first touch of his recruit's tongue, the Warden-Commander let out a low moan, leaning his head against the pillow as his eyes half-closed. He felt her lips pressing to the exposed bulb over and over again, meandering up and down the throbbing shaft; he realised that she was covering his cock with adoring little kisses.

"Good girl," he said throatily, reaching to caress the top of her head. "Mm, that talented tongue of yours."

Flora, already pink in the cheeks, beamed up at him. The next moment, she had taken as much of his cock as she was able between her lips; squeaking in delight as she realised she could accommodate an extra inch.

"You're learning fast, love," Duncan agreed thickly, feeling each nerve ending blaze with renewed vigour at the caresses of her tongue. "Now, suck me."

What Flora lacked in skill, she made up for in enthusiasm; her fingers massaging the root of his shaft as her head bobbed up and down in noisy suckles. Every time a drop of fluid seeped from the tiny slit at the top of Duncan's cock, she would chase it with the tip of her tongue; lapping it up greedily. His arousal mingled with her saliva; saturating the nest of faded curls at his groin.

Her mentor was long past the point of coherent praise; supine on the cushions with a blissful smile across his weathered face. A parade of Hurlocks could have trooped through the tent and he would have paid them no heed; his world shrunk to the lips and tongue caressing his pulsing cock.

"I'm going to come down your throat," he managed to croak eventually, feeling his balls tighten. "I want you to swallow as much as you can."

Flora took a deep breath and prepared herself; moments later, she heard the Warden-Commander let out a strangled cry in his nature tongue, his cock juddering between her lips. She felt hot, salty liquid splattering against the back of her throat, spurt after spurt in a torrent of sheer, overstimulated pleasure.

Ax instructed, Flora swallowed each drop of creamy fluid, lapping up the beads of excess as they rolled down his shaft. Duncan could offer no comment save for a weak groan; sprawled boneless against the mattress with his cock feeling deliciously tender and wrung out.

"Commander?" One of the guards posted at the tent entrance stood in the porch, their eyes professionally focused on Duncan's face. "The Royal General is here."

"Maker," muttered Duncan, forcing himself back into some semblance of coherency. "So much for basking in the afterglow. Don't fret,  _amira._ He won't stay long and then I can feast on that ripe little cunt of yours."

Flora had settled down beside his legs, her head resting on his muscled, olive thigh. Her lover reached to caress her earlobe with a gentle thumb, then pulled the blankets up to hide her nakedness.

Despite the lateness of the hour, Loghain was still clad in full armour; as though to emphasise his commitment to the cause while the Warden-Commander was naked in bed with a girl less then half his age.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" Duncan asked with no small measure of sarcasm. "Don't tell me, Cailan is with you too. That would really make my evening."

"Cailan is watching an eager Chantry novice pleasure a few of his noble companions," the general replied, the derision raw in his voice. "He has assured me that he plans to spectate only."

Duncan thought privately that if Loghain chose to pay a second visit to the Royal tent that evening, he would most likely find his son-in-law's cock wedged deep between the Chantry novice's lips; or the king's buttocks thrusting merrily between a pair of stockinged legs as his noble companions cheered him on.

The Warden-Commander reached down to caress Flora's head as she lay beneath the blanket. She was resting her cheek on his thigh, obscured from view by the thick wool; idly caressing his thick, half-flaccid length as it rested along his thigh.

To his credit, Duncan was able to carry on a relatively normal dialogue, even when it became obvious that he was being subtly pleasured beneath the blankets. He discussed a planned change to the rota system; argued over the ownership of a delivery of arrows; agreed that Cailan should no longer venture too far out into the Wilds.

Loghain returned the conversation with remarkable composure; his eyes dropping to where a head was clearly moving up and down beneath the blankets. The sound of soft, surreptitious sucking soon filled the tent; wetted lips and gentle tongue moving over pleasure-engorged flesh.

"I see the lass has recovered well," he commented, drily.

"Aye," replied Duncan, though he was having increasing difficulty in keeping his voice even. "She's got a rare talent."

His last words caught in his throat; a low, shuddering exhalation of pleasure escaping between his lips.

"Seems like she's got a number of talents," Loghain replied, snorting off-handedly to hide his own envy.

Flora, who had grown too hot beneath the blanket, squirmed up the mattress to lie in the crook of Duncan's arm once again. A stray foot tugged down the embroidered wool - momentarily revealing her pert buttocks - before she tugged it back into place.

The Warden-Commander saw his Army counterpart inhale suddenly, a flicker of envy disturbing the usual stoic composure. Loghain' pride – and mistrust of the Wardens – had never let him betray such an emotion before; Duncan almost laughed at the realisation that it was jealousy over a lover that had caused this crack in Loghain's grim demeanour.

"You ought to find yourself a young and enthusiastic bed-partner," Duncan murmured, pressing his lips to the side of Flora's forehead. "This little beauty has done wonders for my health."

 _More than you know,_ he thought, recalling the rejuvenative caress of her tongue.

Loghain grunted, unconvinced.

"Seems like a distraction to me," he retorted, watching the blanket slip lower inch by inch as Flora nuzzled her face against Duncan's neck. With each squirm more of her pert breast was revealed beneath the wool; the general felt his trousers growing uncomfortably tight.

"A welcome distraction," replied Duncan easily, petting the back of his lover's neck as she planted a row of kisses beside his ear. "When was the last time you took a nineteen year old to bed?"

Despite himself, Loghain let out a snort; this bawdy and coarse soldier's banter was ironically the time when he and the Warden-Commander were most at ease with one another. They were both men who – at various times – had been passionate lovers of women; displaying remarkably similar dominance in the bedchamber. In recent years, due to his wife's death and other more pressing concerns, Loghain's ardour had been dormant.

"I was probably nineteen," he replied, wistfully recalling a girl who had stood as tall as him; who rode and fought as skilful as any man; whom he had bedded gloriously for several months before she had ultimately married his closest friend.

Duncan watched the general's face closely, half-amused and yet feeling oddly sympathetic. Nobody could accuse the two men of being friends; yet they had known each other for decades. He had seen the passion that Mac Tir and Rowan Guerrin had developed for each other while Maric had been cavorting around with an elf.

" _Qalbi,"_ he murmured, pressing a kiss to Flora's earlobe. "Remind the General what a nineteen year old pair of breasts looks like."

Flora gazed curiously at the commander of the Royal Army, her gaze wide and wondering. The blanket had already slid down to reveal much of her cleavage; she let it fall around her waist as she leaned back into the cushions.

Loghain's erection was now painful against his trousers; his dark stare fixated on the girl reclining against the cushions. She was watching him, full-lipped and dreamy-eyed, thick ropes of dark red hair tumbling chaotic around her shoulders. Her breasts were now bared for him; high, creamy and pert, the nipples a tempting shade of dusky pink. They were the sort of breasts that demanded the attention of fingers and tongue; that needed to be kissed and squeezed, and gently suckled on.  _Not_ to do so would be a crime in itself.

With a deep and unsteady breath the Royal General took a step towards the bed; the full lips of the girl watching him curved upwards.


	28. Two Northerners Get Acquainted

Carefully maintaining a neutral expression, Loghain advanced across the rush matting towards the bed. Flora sat upright in the crook of Duncan's shoulder, her high, naked breasts in pleasant contrast to the loose ropes of dark red hair. The Warden-Commander had one arm draped possessively about her; his dark gaze focused intently on the approaching general.

Loghain came to a halt at the edge of the bed, unblinking and disconcertingly serious. This did not unnerve Flora, who was also northern and used to solemn faces. Instead, she wondered simply which little village he had come from – there was a faint, coarse edge to his accent that she vaguely recognised.

"Show me then, lass," he instructed, making a rough gesture with his hands. "Let's see what's got the Warden-Commander so...  _distracted."_

Flora reached up obediently to move aside the thick ropes of hair, showing off one of her high, creamy breasts. Like her nose and her eyelashes; it too tilted upwards, crowned with a rich pink nipples.

With the boldness that had seen his troops emerge victorious from a dozen precarious military skirmishes, Loghain stepped forwards, removing his glove and reaching out. As though testing the fresh-forged hilt of a sword, or appraising a weight of cement used to construct a rampart, he slid his palm beneath Flora's bare breast and cupped it; giving it a gentle squeeze to test its ripeness.

This first caress of firm, youthful flesh undermined Loghain's determined stoicism; a flicker of  _something_  passing across his weathered features. He inhaled unsteadily, aware that his erection was betraying all that his face would not. One calloused thumb slid upwards to circle the pink nipple, coaxing it to hardness.

Flora let out a little sigh, leaning back against the pillows and watching the general through half-closed eyelashes.

" _Mm,"_ she whispered, mostly to herself. "Feels nice."

"I know it's been a while since you've been with a woman, Mac Tir," the Warden-Commander offered, with a note of amusement in the words, as he clambered up to pour an ale. "Is that why you're as tentative as a virgin?"

"Are you offering me the chance to  _be with_ her, then?" retorted Loghain, circling the thick, calloused ball of his thumb over Flora's nipple.

"Don't push your luck," half-snarled back the senior warden across the tented chamber, tension flaring between the two men.

Just then, the full lips of the girl parted and she let out a throaty little moan. Loghain had accidentally pinched her nipple during his exchange with Duncan, and the sharp suddenness had sent a jolt of excitement straight to her core.

The general snorted softly, returning his attention to Flora's breast. Massaging the stiffened nipple between finger and thumb; Loghain let his gaze wander over the skeins of dark red hair spread across the cushions.

"Where did you say you were from, lass?" he asked, keeping his voice deliberately light as he wet his finger and stroked her nipple until it glistened.

"The n-north coast," she whispered back with her soft, characteristic hoarseness.

Without waiting for permission, Loghain reached out; moving aside the thick ropes of hair to bare her second breast. He took a moment to appreciate the sight of her fully exposed cleavage, adjusting the swell of his erection within his leathers.

"Pretty little creature," the general observed, reaching forward to tug gently at both of the small, pink nipples in turn. "Where on the north coast? Near the town?"

"Hi'ver?" she croaked, rapidly losing coherency. "Mm. Herring is a day's ride away."

He licked his thumb and slicked it over her newly exposed nipple, pleased at the whimper that ensued.

Duncan, who was pouring himself a second glass of ale, let a low sound of warning rumble in the back of his throat.

"Don't disrespect the girl by barraging her with  _questions_ ," he retorted, the warning clear the words. "Not when she's granted you the privilege of pleasuring her. If that's a problem -  _leave_."

Loghain snorted softly at the Warden-Commander's blatant deflection of his enquiry; despite this, he had no intention of leaving. The pretty mender had been a recurring guest in the general's dreams ever since he had glimpsed her purring and naked in Duncan's arms several nights prior.

Instead of leaving, he withdrew his stroking fingers from her breast and sat down on the edge of the bed; the mattress dipping beneath his bulky frame.

"Come on, girl," Loghain instructed, his voice a fraction hoarser than usual. "Sit yourself on my knee."

A while later, the tent echoed with the slick sound of a ripe cunt being vigorously –  _mercilessly_  – stimulated. Flora herself was resting on the general's knee; leaning back against his chest with her legs spread wide and her mouth parted in pleasure.

Loghain's sword-calloused

hand was moving rapidly between her thighs; determined to force a climax from Duncan's favourite recruit. He had already spent an enjoyable quarter-candle exploring Flora's soft, wet folds; letting her rub his shaft through his breeches in return.

 _I wonder what Bryce Cousland would say if he could see us now,_ the general thought, wryly.  _His lifelong rival, with two fingers deep inside his nineteen year old daughter._

_Not that she knows who she is._

"Now, lass," he said quietly into Flora's ear as she panted and writhed on his knee. "If you can come on a foreigner's cock, you can come with good Fereldan fingers in you."

She let out a little obedient whimper, leaning her head back against Loghain's shoulder and gazing up at him. He – almost reluctantly – let himself look back; his dark eyes boring hard into her pale grey stare.

 _Soft, rain-coloured eyes clouded with pleasure,_ he thought to himself, wonderingly.  _The last time I bedded a woman with grey eyes, it was Rowan Guerrin. Those beautiful, dark-lashed eyes of hers used to captivate me even when I had my cock sunk within her._

_The eyes on this little lass have blue undertones rather than green; but they're equally luminous._

_Ah, Rowan._

Unable to stop himself, the old general brushed his lips against Flora's neck. She tilted her head to the side to allow him better access, pulling her hair out of the way as best she could. He inhaled the warm scent of her skin before pressing a tender, lingering kiss to her throat.

"Don't lose yourself in sentiment, Mac Tir," Duncan warned sharply. Despite his admonition, his cock stood high as a flagpole between his legs as he watched Flora naked and squirming on Loghain's knee. "You promised my lovely mage a climax. One worth the wait."

The general forced thoughts of Rowan from his mind; returning his focus to the daughter of his rival as she rode his thigh desperately, over-excited and in need of release.

"Are you in heat, lass?" he murmured, massaging the ball of his thumb over her swollen pearl. "Is that why you've jumped so eagerly onto a Rivaini cock? There were many Fereldan soldiers eager to deflower this pretty cunt, you know."

Flora let out a strangled little wail; if Loghain's own shaft had been out, she would have climbed on it without hesitation. Her insides were knotted tight with lust, her clitoris tender and throbbing from the unrefined roughness of his stroking. Being pleasured by the general was an entirely different experience from the expert caresses of Duncan. Her mentor coaxed out each climax with delicious, agonising slowness; petting Flora's cunt with teasing gentleness until she begged him for more. Loghain, on the other hand, stimulated her with a fierce intensity – rubbing out swift little circles over her clitoris with one hand while fucking her relentlessly with the fingers of the other.

Now she thrust herself helplessly against his hand; mouth shaping incoherent pleas for climax.

"Come hard for me," Loghain ordered, his voice hoarse in her ear. "Just as loud as you would for your Rivaini lover. Show him that Fereldan men are no lesser in the bedchamber."

Flora came on instruction, her head thrown back and a wail slipping from her throat. Duncan could see the intensity of her orgasm in the convulsions of her body; the rhythmic spasming of her pelvis and the curling of her toes. Loghain gripped her tightly in place to prevent her from falling; the faintest flicker of triumph disturbing the usual northern stoicism.

"Good lass," he muttered in her ear, touching a strand of hair in a surprisingly gentle gesture. "Sounded like you enjoyed that."

"Mm," mumbled Flora, her head drooping like a wilted flower against his shoulder.

Later, Duncan did not know whether it was the general's unusual tenderness that caused him to intervene; or whether he was always planning to interrupt at this moment. He strode forwards across the tent – noticing that two buttons of Loghain's breeches had been undone in anticipation of what he assumed was to follow – and reached down towards his dreamy-eyed lover.

"Come on,  _qalbi,"_ the Warden-Commander murmured, lifting her up as she curled her arms around his neck. "Time for me to reclaim my rightful place. I appreciate you warming her up for me, Mac Tir."

Loghain gaped in raw disbelief, his soon-to-be neglected cock erect within his breeches.

"You can't be serious," he retorted, and there was a rare note of pleading in the words. "I was about to rut her."

Duncan nuzzled his face against a giggling Flora's neck, kissing her ear with a distinct air of possessiveness.

"Count yourself lucky I allowed you the privilege of touching her," the Warden-Commander retorted, his words interspersed with gentle nibbles at his young mender's ear. "It's more than Cailan has experienced. I hope you have a restful night, General Mac Tir."

Loghain let out a snarl of impotent frustration, buttoning up his breeches with clumsy fingers before stalking indignantly out of the tent.


	29. The Commander's Discipline

Night had well and truly drawn in – the stars overhead gleamed with a bright and liquidous brilliance – and the night rhythms of Ostagar had begun. Guards and Mabari patrolled the high ramparts; scouts drifted in from their assignments; the Chantry priestesses conversed quietly as they returned from the infirmary.

Meanwhile, Alistair was making his way through the Grey Warden tents; almost tripping over a shadowed guy-rope as he tried to avoid unnecessary attention. He could hear snores and grunts drifting through the thick canvas around him – along with several muffled conversations, or the sound of a weapon being sharpened. Older Wardens had a notoriously difficult time getting to sleep; a consequence of the advanced corruption of the taint.

Yet Alistair was young, and handsome, and at the peak of physical fitness; and he was not worried about the future. Instead, his thoughts were focused solely on his sister-warden, who he had left unconscious in the care of the Warden-Commander.

 _Duncan will have kept a close eye on her,_ he thought to himself as he trod the damp, muddied grass.  _He would have sent a message if anything was wrong. She's probably just sleeping it off._

He approached the commander's tent just as the bell rang to mark the eleventh hour. One of the guards posted at the entrance turned at the sound, and noticed Alistair's approach. The guard knew who Alistair was – there was a kernel of truth in the other Wardens' bitter accusations of favouritism – Duncan tended to choose Alistair to accompany him on various excursions, even over senior Wardens.

"Evenin', Alistair," one of the guards murmured, hiding a snort of amusement. "You here to see Duncan?"

"Yes, well – partly," Alistair replied, coming to a halt in the damp grass.

The two guards glanced at one other, biting back grins.

"I'm afraid he's a little preoccupied at the moment," the other said, diplomatically. "You might want to come back later."

"I just want to check to see if Flo's awake," Alistair protested, his hazel eyes wide and entreating. "I'll just stick my head in quickly – I need to see that she's alright. It was my fault she was hurt in the first place."

The two guards glanced at one another, not quite able to hide their grins this time.

"Alright, just a peek," one said, solemnly. "Nice and quiet, though."

Alistair nodded, watching the guard lift the canvas entrance flap. Quietly – thinking to himself that Flora must still be sleeping – he took a step inside, letting the shadows mask his arrival.

The inside of the tent was lit with candles scattered on every surface; far more than would normally be required to provide a night-time glow. The desk – where Alistair had first looked, thinking that Duncan would be sat there scribbling away – was empty. The armour stand bore Duncan's distinctive breastplate, inscribed with silver griffons; his sword leaned against the edge of the desk. The next moment, Alistair's attention was drawn to the opposite end of the tent; where Duncan's utilitarian camp bed rested.

The Warden-Commander was standing before his bed, clad in linen under-armour with a blatant erection tenting the fabric of his trousers. Flora was standing before him, clad in a loose men's nightshirt; bare-legged and with her naked toes pressed into the rush matting. The front of the night shirt was loosened; Alistair's sister-warden's high, tilted breasts were shamelessly displayed for their commander to view.

"And when I looked next, he was tonguing  _these,"_ Duncan was saying, a raw sternness to his tone as he gazed at the ripe little mounds. "You let  _Loghain Mac Tir_ suck on these pretty nipples, knowing that he's no friend to the Wardens – or to  _me._ And you  _enjoyed_ it, didn't you?"

Flora peered up at him through her eyelashes and nodded, biting her plump lower lip. Duncan let out a low growl, deep in his throat; then reached out and gripped one small nipple between finger and thumb, massaging it with deliberate slowness.

"They're still wet from his tongue," the commander muttered, pinching one tender little nub until she yelped.

Alistair was frozen to the spot, disguised by the shadows and his own unadulterated shock. His mind raced wildly even as he stood there, unsure of what to do. Duncan had now reached out a hand to cup his new recruit roughly between the legs; feeling the heat of her cleft through the linen nightshirt.

"And then you sat in Mac Tir's lap and let him pet you," the Rivaini murmured thickly, squeezing Flora's mound in a strong palm. "You let that dour old northerner fondle your little cunt until you wailed in pleasure, while he barely cracked a smile."

Flora whimpered, gazing up at Duncan with her lips slightly parted; strands of damp hair plastered to her sweaty breasts.

"And then-" the Warden-Commander's voice took on a deeper, more velvet tone, the Rivaini intonation emerging strongly. "I saw you unbutton Mac Tir's breeches and put a hand inside to _feel the length of his shaft!"_

She blushed, roses flaring on her cheeks as she shifted from foot to foot shyly before him.

"You didn't think I'd noticed you playing with his cock," Duncan continued throatily, his eyes dark with lust. "But I saw him lean back to allow you room to stroke him. How does the General's longsword feel, my new recruit?"

"Thick," she whispered back, her breath coming in quick little pants. "And veiny. He let me stroke it."

"If I'd looked away any longer, you would have been  _riding_  it," Duncan replied, giving her mound another soft rub. "I saw you parting your legs eagerly as his cockhead angled into your cunt. How far did he get before I intervened?"

Flora innocently showed her finger and thumb about a half-inch apart, then – at a stern look from her commander – she blushed and widened them to about three inches.

"I  _knew_ he'd penetrated you while my back was turned," the Rivaini said, the sternness in his voice undercut with open lust. "I heard that little moan of encouragement."

He stroked a rough thumb over her linen-covered clitoris, prompting a desperate whimper from his partner.

"So, young Flora, for enjoying three glorious inches of Loghain Mac Tir's  _thick and veined_ cock, I'll need to discipline you."

Alistair was as potent as a statue, frozen in the shadows with eyes wide and heart beating so loudly he was afraid that they might hear. Unsure whether or not to intervene, his thoughts raced wildly even as his cock strained the confines of his breeches.

_She doesn't look scared._

_She could always shield herself. Unless she doesn't want to disrespect our leader._

_I've never seen Duncan like this before. He's more man than commander. I've never seen such intensity in his eyes._

Duncan sat back on the campbed and leaned back, putting Flora swiftly over his knee. She squeaked, twisting her head upwards as he lifted her nightshirt up over her rear. Alistair watched his sister-warden's creamy buttocks being exposed to the chilly night air, pert and rounded; he had to grip himself to stop the seed from surging.

Duncan licked his lips, exhaling measuredly on his palm to warm it.

"I'm going to discipline you for each broach of propriety I witnessed," he murmured, lifting his hand above her bare buttocks. Flora whimpered obediently, her cheeks flushed with excitement and anticipation.

" _This_ is for letting him pinch your nipples hard enough to bruise them."

The Warden-Commander's palm made contact with his recruit's bottom in a gentle spank, with enough pressure to tingle but not to  _hurt._ Flora yelped, her eyes widening as she clutched the rough wool fabric of the blankets between bitten-nailed fingers.

" _This_ is for letting him lap at them with his tongue. You  _know_  how that tongue has been used to slander and insult our Order - and you allowed him to lick every inch of those gorgeous little breasts."

Flora nodded solemnly; she  _had_ , and she had enjoyed it immensely.

The sound of flesh colliding with flesh rang around the tent once more and she let out a squeal. Duncan's erection pressed into her abdomen as she was bent over his knee, she could hear his breaths coming in increasingly ragged pants.

" _This_ is for tilting your head so Mac Tir could press kisses to your neck," the Warden-Commander murmured, increasingly hoarse as he struggled to maintain composure. Flora's creamy buttocks were beginning to flare into pink roses beneath the loving attention of his palm; he could see the remnants of fingermarks fading at the apex of the ripe cheek.

"And this is for letting him put two fingers inside you."

The commander spanked his young recruit twice more, licking his lips to moisten them. A panting, excited Flora wriggled on his lap and he gave her a stern warning to keep still; a raw edge of lust inflaming the words.

Alistair watched, enthralled and speechless, as Duncan's own broad, tawny finger slid between Flora's thighs; nestling itself inside her plump, just-visible folds. With measured control, he slid the finger in and out; resulting in some of the wettest, most obscene sounds that Alistair had ever heard.

"Maker," murmured their commander, savouring each slow, liquid thrust. "What a juicy little cunt you've got, my young recruit. I've never felt anything quite so warm and welcoming. No wonder the general couldn't resist."

Flora let out a whine of pure, animal lust as he fingered her; a whimper that ended rapidly in a squeak when his fingers were withdrawn and another spank administered.

"Please," she croaked, an almost unbearable ache between her legs. "Please, I want your – your- "

"You want my cock?" the Rivaini enquired, massaging his thumbs into her buttocks and spreading them apart. "Was Mac Tir's longsword not enough for my sweet  _qalbi's_ needs? You moaned nicely enough when he snuck it inside you."

Flora shook her head desperately, another whimper slipping from her throat as she felt herself being spread open; her little pucker exposed to the cool night air.

"I need you," she begged, her bare breasts pressed against his broad thighs. "Please."

As Alistair watched from the shadows in fascination, Duncan applied a gleaming, viscous substance to the broad tip of his index finger, and then rubbed it between Flora's buttocks.

With tender languidness, the finger embedded itself up to the first knuckle and then the second. Flora let out a whine, her eyes widening as Duncan began to push his finger in and out.

"Does that feel nice, dove?"

"Yes," she whimpered, her cheek against the blankets as she thrust her buttocks towards him. "More, please."

Alistair very nearly got himself caught as a hand landed on his elbow; a startled breath escaping his throat. One of the guards was beckoning him, a pointed stare writ across his face. The canvas tent flap was held open just enough to let a lone man through.

The young Warden staggered out into the night, his face crimson and his mind filled with lurid, colourful images of his commander and his sister-warden. He had known what Flora looked like naked – they had tentatively explored each other's bodies well enough last night - and he had stroked her to clumsy climax several times; his fingers working her pearl of pleasure with amateur enthusiasm.

Yet he had never seen Flora as she had been with Duncan – utterly consumed with lust, her eyes blown dark with desire, her cunt so eager that it had made a wet patch on their commander's thigh. She had arched herself beneath the Rivaini's hand like a cat being petted, purring and wholly content.

"How – how long have they been lovers?" Alistair asked one of the guards in an undertone, trying to keep his voice steady despite the blatant tenting of his breeches.

"A couple of weeks," the guard replied, with a nod from the other. "Aye, the Warden-Commander's forsaken his other women. Even that pretty dark-haired archer was only asked here so he could suggest a  _three-in-a-bed_  for the future."

"Mm," the second guard added, enthusiastically. "I hope I'm on duty when  _that_ happens!"

All three men were quiet for a moment, envisioning feminine lips tangling, naked breasts and soft clefts moving rhythmically together as the commander introduced his pretty mender to the delights of a woman's body.

From what the guards had learnt through eavesdropping, Flora had already expressed a shy interest in being pleasured by a woman. In a post-coital embrace, Duncan had told Flora of an experience he'd had with a pair of full-breasted Rivaini mirror-dancers in the back of a wagon. By the time he had finished, his lover was flushed and panting; curiosity and arousal fusing together as she mounted him for a second time.

Their reverie was disturbed by a ragged wail of pleasure from inside the tent; the unmistakable sound of a young woman climaxing. They could dimly hear the commander's voice, low and throaty, urging her into still greater throes as slick flesh was furiously manipulated.

 _I want to make her come like that,_ Alistair thought to himself.  _I want her to lose control and let me do all that I want to her._

As he turned to stumble off, the younger of the two guards gestured him over. Glancing sideways – the elder was preoccupied with signing for an innocuous brown package – the junior lowered his voice.

"There's a slit in the canvas around the back of the tent," he hissed, discretely. "Got a perfect view of the bed. You can see  _everything."_


	30. Watching the Warden-Commander Take His Pleasure

It was not a particularly nice evening – a fine, misting drizzle was beginning to fall – and yet the thought of returning to the junior warden quarters did not cross Alistair's mind.

 _I want to watch my friend having sex,_  he thought, feeling a faint flush blossom on her cheeks.  _I want to see how she comes for another man._

_Even if that man is – Maker's Breath – our own commander._

With movement slightly hampered by the painful cockstand in his breeches, he began to make his way around the shadowed perimeter of the tent. Without the aid of the braziers, it was not an easy journey – several times, the young Warden almost stumbled over guy ropes, or tent pegs protruding from the soil.

As he navigated his way to the back of the tent, Alistair became aware of distinctive muffled sounds making their way through the canvas. It was the unmistakable sound of impassioned kissing – soft, breathy sighs, tender little pecks, a sinuous writhing of the tongue. Lips were bitten and gently suckled on, wet and adoring laps were administered. It was at once loving and full of erotic promise; the kiss of a bride and groom on a wedding night.

The slick, potent kisses continued as Alistair came to a halt beside the rear wall of the tent. He began to search for the slit – heart racing – feeling across the damp canvas as his cock begged for attention. Finally, his trembling fingers found a tear in the fabric that had been deliberately lengthened by a sly blade. Almost simultaneously, he noticed two more slits at similar heights made several feet away – clearly at one point, several viewers had enjoyed spying on the lovemaking in the tent.

Yet for the moment, Alistair was alone beside the damp canvas. The kissing had increased in intensity while he had been hunting for the slit. Desperate workings of lips, wet and hasty, were now accompanied by soft gasps and audible little nibbles.

"Good girl," he heard his commander murmur, more tender in tone than Alistair had ever heard. "Mm, just like that."

His breath caught in his throat, Alistair put his eye to the slit in the canvas; blinking as the candlelit scene in the tent came into focus.

The young Warden's mentor was now entirely naked, his broad, musclebound torso a rich brown hue in the soft light. Old scars were strewn over his sinewy torso, yet there was clearly still a remarkable strength within the ageing frame. His head was thrown back, several strands of greying hair escaping the dark ponytail and the gold ring in his ear glinting in the candlelight. Alistair had never seen the guard on his commander's face so thoroughly let down – there was nothing but sheer, sweaty pleasure writ across Duncan's face. His eyes were closed, his lips open in a soft, throaty moan of encouragement; the raw lust made him appear a decade younger.

Alistair felt a vague sense of shame at watching his senior officer in such a private, intimate moment. Yet this did not stop him from dropping his curious gaze to his hero's cock, which was now gloriously and flagrantly erect. A shade darker than the rest of his body, it was long and bulbous, thick as a man's wrist; a prominent vein pulsed the full length of the shaft. Duncan's sac was larger than average, weighed down by its impressive contents. Suddenly, Alistair could understand why his commander had held a reputation as a formidable lover in his youth.

Alistair was not the only one focused on the Rivaini's twitching, dripping cock. His sister-warden, also fully nude, was kneeling on the rush matting; her lovely, solemn face tilted upwards. As he watched, she leaned forwards and began to press her lips tenderly along the length of their commander's shaft.

At once, Alistair realised that the loving kisses he had overhead – the nibbles, the pecks, the suckling and lapping – had not been exchanged between two mouths, as he had believed. Instead, Flora had been sharing passionate kisses with her lover's cock; gazing at it with adoration as a new bride would a husband. As Alistair watched, she lifted Duncan's shaft with tender care and began to kiss his heavy sac; covering every inch of wrinkled flesh with affection.

"You're teasing me,  _qalbi,"_  the Warden-Commander said in strangled tones, one hand roughly caressing the top of Flora's head as she traced circles across each swollen sphere with her tongue. "Is this revenge for me spanking that sweet little bottom?"

Flora smiled shyly up at her commander, then lifted his cock up against his stomach; holding it there so she could lavish the underside with delicate little kisses. Duncan let out a groan, a vein throbbing in his neck as clear liquid dribbled in a thin, continuous stream from the head of his cock.

"You little minx," he retorted, hoarsely. "One of these days, I'm going to tie those lovely legs wide apart and spank your pretty cunt until you can't leave my bed for a da- "

The Rivaini's words ended in a strangled gasp, his eyes widening in sudden, shocked pleasure. As he had been talking, Flora had wrapped her lips around his cockhead and drawn as much of his shaft into her mouth as she could manage.

Alistair watched Duncan almost lose his balance, a groan of ecstasy slipping into the damp air as Flora's full, sulky lips went to work on his cock. The commander braced himself with a palm atop a nearby dresser, his feet planted apart; aware that the potency of his  _amira's_  loving suckles often caused his legs to weaken beneath him.

Soon, the tent echoed with the sound of a cock being thoroughly and enthusiastically sucked upon. Wet kisses were applied to the swollen, purplish cockhead; before it was lapped delicately like an Orlesian marzipan fancy. Small fingers caressed Duncan's heavy sac, then slipped further back between his thighs, caressing and fondling with exploratory fascination. Alistair couldn't see what exactly Flora was doing; only that it made Duncan groan, his eyes squeezing shut with ecstasy.

 _I thought that women didn't enjoy putting manhoods in their mouths,_  Alistair thought wildly.  _That's what the other Wardens said._

_But look at my sister-warden. Her nipples are swollen, the insides of her thighs are gleaming. She's loving every moment._

For a moment, as a loose fist slid up and down his cock, Alistair allowed himself to indulge in a selfish fantasy.

_Me and Flo together on a bedroll, in our isolated little corner of the dormitory tent. I've stroked her between the legs and she's come all over my hand. She wants to return the favour; licking her lips, she slides beneath the blankets. I feel my sleep trousers unbuttoned and my cock taken out. She takes all of it in her mouth and starts sucking. It makes her just as wet as she is now, pleasuring Duncan._

Alistair almost came in his palm at such an intoxicating vision. Forcing himself to release the death grip on his cock, he returned his attention to the tent.

"Let's try what we've been practising,  _qalbi,"_  Duncan murmured, his dark gaze smouldering with both lust and tenderness. "My little nymph."

As he went to withdrew his cock, Flora whimpered and leaned forwards, trying to keep him in her mouth for as long as possible. Duncan chuckled, caressing the top of her head with loving affection.

"You made me late for my meeting with the king the other morning, my sweet comb of honey, because you didn't want to stop sucking my cock."

Flora giggled, duly freeing her lips.

"You could have just left," she whispered, peering up at him through her eyelashes. "You weren't trapped by my mouth."

He smiled down at her, rubbing the thick, callused ball of his thumb around the curve of her ear. She tilted her head towards the caress, rubbing her face against his palm like a cat.

"Hm," replied Duncan, a wry snort escaping. "Spill my seed between the lips of a sweet and beautiful girl, or listen to Cailan monologuing about his own delusions of grandeur? It wasn't a difficult choice."

Flora's tongue darted over her lower lip, tasting the intoxicatingly musk of his excitement. Unable to stop herself, she gripped his cock by its base; angling it towards her and lapping up as much of the clear liquid as possible from the swollen head. Duncan let out a low chuckle, stroking a tender hand over her hair.

"My lusty little  _qalbi._  Well then, if you're so greedy for my cock, shall we practice what I taught you the other night?"

Flora sat back on her haunches and nodded, gazing up at him with dazed, dreamy eyes.

Alistair watched in awe through the tear in the canvas as the Warden-Commander began to ease his cock between his recruit's eager lips. To the young Warden's surprise; Duncan continued to inch himself in, even when the natural boundary of Flora's mouth had been reached.

"Good girl," the Rivaini murmured, one of his hands resting gently on her head, the other on her shoulder. "Nice and relaxed, now. Keep that throat loose."

To Alistair's disbelief, Duncan's heavy sac was soon nestled against Flora's chin; she reached up to caress it with little strokes of her fingers.

 _I wonder if Flo would let me do that,_  he thought to himself, wildly.  _Mine looks a little longer than Duncan's – but his seems thicker._

_I've seen her little cunt taking my fingers – I want to see it stretch around a man's cock._

By now, Duncan had began to move himself very slowly and gently; his taut olive buttocks clenching with each controlled thrust, before relaxing into supple ovals. His face was contorted into an almost pained ecstasy; his mouth open in desperation; groans of pure animal pleasure escaping his throat.

"Feels – feels so  _fucking_  good- " he choked, a thin trail of saliva running into his beard as he panted. "Your mouth –  _amira_  – I've never felt anything like it."

Flora continued to suckle diligently on his cock; unaware that the rejuvenating caress of her tongue was igniting every nerve filament in Duncan's shaft; restoring it to the glorious over-sensitivity of adolescence. It took all of the commander's restraint to hold back a climax that raged at the base of his shaft like an impatient stallion before a race; desperate for release.

Finally, even the Rivaini's exceptional self-control faltered. Duncan felt his sac pulse against Flora's chin; and he managed to croak out a strangulated warning.

"I'm going to come down your throat – I want you to take it all, baby."

Alistair watched Duncan's hips contract, a cry tearing through the damp air. The muscles in Flora's slender neck worked as jets of hot, liquid seed were shot into her throat; he could see her making a valiant effort to swallow as much as she could.

The Warden-Commander lost both his balance and the strength in his knees with the delicious potency of his climax. He sank down onto the edge of the bed, broad shoulders heaving as he trembled; legs spread wide as he tried to catch his breath.

"Oh – oh,  _fuck."_

Flora shuffled across the matting, taking up a kneeling position between Duncan's thighs. She lifted his heavy, softening cock and began to clean it with her tongue; lapping up the remnants of his orgasm while pressing shy, adoring kisses to the shaft.

Duncan dropped a clumsy hand to caress the top of her head, admiring the fullness of his recruit's wide, sulky lips as they wandered lovingly over his swollen sac.

"Maker," he murmured, still hoarse from the continuous moaning of the past half-hour. "You've the prettiest mouth in Ferelden,  _amira."_

Flora smiled somewhat dazedly up at him. The Warden-Commander gazed back down at her; the fierce, natural hawkishness of his stare softening.

The stroke of his hand became a caress more than a post-coital fondle, his thumb edging around the pink shell of her ear.

"Come here,  _qalbi."_

Just then, Alistair received a mild shock as a figure rounded the corner of the tent, panting slightly, then scuttling across the grass towards him. It was the junior officer, eager to gain a glimpse of the lovely mender in action before he retired for the night. Alistair felt a flush rise to his cheeks; he thought about offering some sort of defence for his own voyeurism, but the soldier spoke before the young Warden could say anything.

"Maker's Balls," he grumbled, pressing an eye to the adjacent slit in the canvas. "I've missed it! They'll be lying together,  _talking,_  for ages now. My break'll be over before round two!  _Bah,_  might as well get a drink."

The soldier shuffled off, grumpily. Alistair – who had not moved a muscle or spoken a word – gaped silently into the shadows.

 _This is my opportunity to leave,_  he thought feverishly to himself.  _You heard what the man said. They're just talking, now._

_I… I wonder what they talk about?_

Holding his breath, Alistair pressed his face against the damp canvas; squinting until his pupil had grown used to the contrasting candlelight.

The sight within the tent was almost as shocking as the initial revelation about the identity of Flora's older lover. Alistair's sister-warden was curled on the camp bed, a threadbare blanket tangled beneath her bare hip; her lovely, solemn face thoughtful as she gazed out into the tent. The dark red hair was spread out around her like some volcanic mass, curling and deep crimson against the shadow.

Flora's nakedness was part-covered by a pair of muscled arms, wrapping her from behind in a tight embrace. One tawny thigh rested possessively atop her own, her head nestled neatly against a broad, battle-scarred shoulder. As a breathless Alistair watched, the Warden-Commander shifted to murmur into his young recruit's ear.

"How is your head,  _amira?"_

"Mm, fine."

"Let me see," he countered, sternly.

Flora bowed her chin to her chest, while Duncan propped himself up on an elbow, moving aside thick ropes of hair until he had uncovered the base of her skull. A frown deepened the wrinkles on his forehead as he searched for any remnant of the wound that she had received.

"Where was it,  _qalbi?"_

Flora reached over her shoulder and swiped her fingers vaguely towards a healthy looking patch of skin. Duncan inhaled, squinting through the shadow at the utterly unremarkable spot. Carefully, he brushed a thumb over the hair, feeling for a lump, a bruise or other tenderness – yet even this probing elicited no reaction from his young mender.

"Maker," he breathed, eyebrows rising. "That's remarkable. Clever girl."

"It's not me," Flora replied, stifling a yawn. "It's my spirits."

Duncan lowered his hand, then leaned forward and pressed a kiss tenderly against the back of her head. He kept his lips there for a moment, inhaling the wood-smoke scent of her hair. Flora smiled sleepily, her pale eyes wandering idly around the tent.

"These spirits of yours," he murmured against his mage's neck, fitting himself back around the warm curves of her body. "Are they with you all the time?"

Flora nodded, a thick rope of oxblood hair falling over her face.

"They don't always  _speak_  to me," she replied, curling her small, bare toes against his calf. "But they're always there in the background."

Duncan reached up to move the strand of hair away from Flora's eyes. Flora intercepted his wrist and kept his hand before her face, gazing at the long, sinewy fingers and the callouses scattered over the skin like constellations. It was a hand that had spent more years gripping a sword hilt than a pen; decades of wielding a blade in both drill and active combat worn deep into the flesh. Small scars were strewn over the knuckles; old teeth-marks embedded near the thumb.

Flora slid her own slender, paler fingers in-between Duncan's; turning his hand so she could inspect the remnants of battles long past.

"What's this from?" she breathed, touching a nail-bitten thumb to the teethmarks. "Someone bit you?"

 _She bites her nails,_  Duncan thought to himself, with a sudden and inexplicable surge of emotion.  _Maker, but she's young._

"Yes," he replied, drawing her a little more tightly to his chest. "An angry Chantry sister who caught me napping in a confession-box."

Flora twisted her head and shot him a dubious look; the Warden-Commander held his composure for a moment, and then laughed, looking momentarily like the mischievous boy he had once been.

She blinked up at him, her pale grey eyes luminous in the candlelight. Duncan's gaze softened as he returned her stare, squeezing their entwined fingers.

"Your eyes are like water," he murmured, momentarily sidetracked. "They reflect the colour of the light around you,  _jamila."_

The next moment, the Warden-Commander let out a slightly embarrassed bark of laughter; the corner of a wry mouth curling.

"I sound like a youth spouting poetry," he muttered, ruefully. "I'm at least thirty years past that stage of life. Anyway,  _zahra,_  I'm just teasing you. Those toothmarks were made by a dog that didn't approve of me stealing a bread roll from its owner."

"Ooh," Flora replied, rubbing her thumb thoughtfully over his callused knuckles. "Was this… recently?"

Once more, Duncan let out a chuckle, his eyes darkening with amusement and desire. Rolling Flora onto her back, he positioned himself on top of her; propping his weight up on strong arms.

"Recently?" he murmured, nuzzling his beard against her neck as she giggled. "Are you implying that your Warden-Commander goes around stealing baked goods from his subordinates?"

Flora let out a squeak of delight, wrapping her arms around his shoulders as he growled into her ear.

 _I've never seen Duncan laugh like that before,_  Alistair thought, transfixed.  _He looks a decade younger, at least. Maker's Breath._


	31. Three Times

The Warden-Commander ducked his head to kiss his recruit full on the mouth. What had begun as a playful peck soon resulted in a passionate tangle of lips; soft pants emerging from both parties as they kissed with increasing vigour. Alistair watched – transfixed – as his sister-warden suckled lewdly on their leader's tongue, nibbling at Duncan's lower lip with naked desire.

The Rivaini let out a breathless groan, their lips finally parting as she flashed him a shy, flushed smile. He made an attempt to speak, but the sight of his lover sprawled beneath him – eyes dreamy, full lips swollen and parted, hair spread out like some volcanic mass across the cushions – proved too tempting. With a helpless sound of surrender, he lowered his mouth to hers once again; speaking hoarsely between kisses.

"Why could I never resist you,  _qalbi?_ You bewitched me from the moment you sought me out on that first night for a kiss, half-naked in a sheer nightgown. You've no idea how hard it was not to fuck you there and then on the riverbank."

"I would've let you," she whispered back, with her usual earnest solemnity. "I liked how you made me feel."

Duncan smiled to himself, remembering how his young recruit's eyes had widened after feeling his thigh press between her legs for the first time. A pink flush of pleasure had blossomed in her cheeks, even as she began to tentatively grind herself against the hard muscle.

"You knew full-well what you were doing when you sought me out that first night," he murmured, supporting his weight on a strong elbow and admiring the pert, creamy breasts bared beneath him. "You wore a night-gown so thin that I could see the shadow of your mound through the material."

Flora went a slightly deeper shade of pink, biting the lush fullness of her lower lip. Duncan leaned down to kiss her quivering mouth, his coal-dark Rivaini eye alight with sudden, glittering outpost.

"Speaking of those honeyed folds," he breathed, the words slipping from his throat. "Mac Tir has petted them already tonight, and it sounds like Alistair was learning his way around earlier. Now, it's  _my_ turn to play with this sweet little cunt."

Duncan repositioned himself on the bed, his broad cock lying across his thigh with a clear fluid dripping continuously from the head. Flora was already laid out before him with practised ease, her thighs wantonly parted and her small feet propped on her commander's thighs.

Outside, a thin drizzle had started up, turning dusty patches of earth into mud. Very few creatures dwelt within Ostagar; a coven of ravens resided in the ruins of the tower, and they often unsettled those posted on night duties by swooping down unexpectedly into the valley below.

Yet Alistair was paying no attention to the rain or the ravens. The sight of his sister-warden eagerly anticipating her pleasure had prompted him to give in to what he had so far managed to resist. Trusting in the shadows to obscure his actions, the young Warden glanced around a final time before reaching down to loosen the buttons on his trousers. Once the breeches were unfastened, he let his erection spring free; his cock standing out proudly amidst a nest of coppery curls. Gripping himself in a loose fist, Alistair put his eye once more to the slit in the canvas.

Flora was sprawled flat on the blankets, her hair spread out beneath her; thighs parted obediently before her commander.

Alistair gazed at his friend's lovely, grave face – it was no longer fixed in its usual solemnity, but flushed with pleasure and need. Her full lips were parted dreamily, her dark lashes resting against her cheeks as she lay with eyes closed.

Duncan's hand was moving rapidly at the apex of Flora's legs; Alistair could glimpse the muscles flexing in the senior Warden's shoulder. There was an expression of hawkish, almost predatory focus on his face as he stared down at his recruit's tender cleft; his breath coming in rapid pants.

"Maker," he murmured, admiring the symmetry of the neat folds. "What a pretty little cunt. I could spend all day between these thighs."

Alistair could not see what their commander was doing to his new recruit, but the sounds that arose from the campbed left little to the imagination. A wet and swollen clitoris was being rubbed in rapid circles; Flora was holding her own slick folds apart to allow her lover greater access.

Alistair watched his sister-warden writhe in the bed with hopeless pleasure, her fingers dug into the blankets and her bare toes curling. Sweat was beading on her forehead and running in rivulets down her breasts; moans of unashamed delight emerging from her throat.

"Don't stop," she begged in a voice hoarse with need, thrusting herself wantonly against his hand. "Feels – feels so nice."

Duncan chuckled, letting his fingers sink in to the second knuckle.

"I'm glad, dove _._ Now, how many times would you like to come before I fuck you?"

"Twice," she replied dreamily, letting her arms fall back over her head. "No,  _three_  times."

"My greedy little  _qalbi_ ," the Warden-Commander murmured, fondly. "Fortunately, bringing you to climax is one of my  _favourite_  pastimes."

The first time, he used his fingers; both hands working in concert to draw out an orgasm from his young partner. Two fingers pumped mercilessly between her folds while her pearl of pleasure was massaged beneath a rough, experienced thumb.

For the second, Duncan lowered his head between Flora's thighs and began to lap at her with his tongue. Flora lay back against the tangled blankets, dreamily caressing her own stiffened nipples while her lover suckled gently on her folds.

 _I want to taste her too,_ Alistair thought feverishly to himself as he stood with his breeches around his thighs; hand moving in rapid strokes along his shaft.  _I've licked my fingers after touching her, but it's not the same. I want to taste her from the source._

The Warden-Commander kissed his recruit's ripe cunt with the same loving admiration that she had lavished on his cock earlier.

"You are sweeter than honey,  _amira,"_ he murmured thickly as she whimpered, pushing her hips greedily towards his mouth. "I would have you spread on a table so I could break my fast on you each morning."

He let his tongue lathe in three wide stripes from her mound to the crack of her buttocks; she let out a keening wail and melted into the blankets. The old Warden kissed her through this second climax, his lips pressing lovingly to her pulsing clitoris.

By the time that her hips had stopped convulsing and she had reclaimed some control of her lungs, Alistair's sister-warden was begging openly to be fucked.

"Please," she whimpered, her lovely, fine-boned face pink with desperation. "I need – I  _need_ it- "

Duncan reclined on an elbow, watching fondly as his young lover reached down hungrily for his cock. Clumsy in her eagerness, Flora squirmed herself beneath him, and angled the slick, bulbous head inside; spreading her thighs wide to accommodate him.

As two thick inches of Duncan's shaft made their way between her folds, she let out a squeak of triumph and settled back on the blankets; blissful anticipation glowing from her cheeks as she awaited the slow, satisfying insertion of the next seven inches.

"Please –  _more- "_

Unfortunately, Flora then felt her commander's cock ease itself out of her with excruciating slowness. Duncan smiled at the resulting squeal of dismay, valiantly ignoring the instinct to sink himself back inside her familiar, delicious tightness.

"Patience,  _amira,"_ he breathed, reaching down to delve a hand into his discarded tunic pocket. "You requested  _three_  climaxes before we made love, and so three is what I shall be delivering."

Flora let out a whine of frustration, eyeing Duncan with a mixture of obstinacy and plaintiveness. The Warden-Commander smiled, holding up something small, elongated and bronze; with an odd mechanism at one end.

"An old friend from Rivain sent me this curiosity," he murmured, watching Flora's pale gaze settle on the strange object. "Have you seen one before?"

Flora shook her head, still grumpy at the premature withdrawal of her lover's cock. It was the second time this had occurred in the evening – earlier, she and General Mac Tir had just settled into a mutually enjoyable rhythm when Duncan had reclaimed her.

"No," she whispered, letting her head rest against the pillows and twisting a strand of hair around her finger. "What is it?"

Duncan smiled, using a calloused thumb to push the mechanism at the end of the bronze oval. As he pushed, the key twisted and an odd, metallic winding sound emerged from within the bronze contraption. Flora propped herself up on her elbows and watched her lover fiddle with the strange device, perched on the edge of the bed with a hawkish intensity across his handsome, faded features.

A few moments later, he lifted his thumb off the winding-key. The bronze shell began to tremble, a soft, blurred whirring echoing from within its hollow core. The contraption shuddered between Duncan's fingers for a full twenty breaths.

The Warden-Commander raised an eyebrow, astonished at the residual tingling left between his finger and thumb. Rubbing them absentmindedly together, he returned his gaze to his young recruit's flushed, expectant face.

" _Qalbi,"_ he said softly, pushing at the winding key once more with the thick ball of his thumb. "Spread those soft folds of yours and hold them apart. Show me that little pearl of pleasure."

Flora obediently used her fingers to open herself up. Duncan, to his embarrassment, found himself actively salivating - like a hungry Mabari - at the sight of his young lover's exposed cunt. Unable to resist, he reached out and pushed a slow, affectionate finger inside; watching her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks.

"Don't tease me," she pleaded, fixing her solemn, entreating gaze on him.

Duncan yielded to his mender's plea, admiring the sound his finger made as it withdrew. Using Flora's own slickness to moisten her, he released his thumb from the winding key and pressed the quivering bronze tip against her wet pearl of pleasure.

Her eyes immediately widened, her lips parted; a purr of astonished delight escaped her throat.

"Do you like that,  _qalbi?"_ Duncan murmured, using his thumb to keep the winding key taut. "You look so fucking beautiful."

"Oh –  _oh…yes!"_

The Warden-Commander began to massage the trembling tip in a slow, deliberate roll against his recruit's tender pearl.

Soon, Flora was making noises that Alistair had never heard from her before; desperate, animalistic keens of pleasure that tore from her throat like something profane. His own wrist hurt from the speed at which he was stroking himself; his eyes fixated on his writhing, naked sister-warden as she begged Duncan incoherently not to stop.

The Warden-Commander had no intention of stopping. There was a hard, bright edge of excitement writ across his face; mingled with the intense focus of battle. He did not take his eyes off his young recruit's face as she twisted in helpless, agonised pleasure beneath him. The hum of the wind-up pleasure device was drowned out by Flora's ecstatic moans, and the wet quivering of a saturated cunt.

"Come apart for me, baby," he ordered her throatily, gripping one small, flailing foot and kissing her toes. "Don't hold back."

Flora came on command, her hips convulsing in throes so violent that she almost rolled senseless off the bed; a ragged wail torn from her throat. The world contracted about her until it consisted solely of her own climax and her commander's hawkish stare; thick tendrils of sensation sprouting from between her legs and coiling into every part of her body until she felt a vessel of sheer pleasure.

The intensity of the climax was potent enough that Flora found herself tearful in its aftermath; trembling as the fluids of orgasm dripped down her thighs. She reached out to clutch at her mentor's strong arm, her small fingers scrambling for purchase against the sinew and muscle.

"Aah –  _aah…"_

Duncan drew his recruit into his arms, nuzzling his face affectionately against Flora's hair while nipping gently at her ear. Flora lolled against him, limp and dazed, inhaling deep gulps of air in an attempt to claw back some coherency.

"I wish I could hire an artist to paint you as you look right now in my arms,  _qalbi,"_ he murmured, stroking his thumb possessively between her breasts. "Panting and eager, with these sweaty little tits on  _wanton_  display. I've never seen such a ripe, pink flower as the one nestled between your thighs,  _amira."_

Alistair knew that he ought to leave; that he was about to spy on something deeply intimate between his commander and his fellow recruit. They were exchanging lingering kisses now; their lips working together with a languid, sensual familiarity.

As the tongues of senior and junior warden tangled lovingly together, Alistair realised suddenly that the Warden-Commander was working his cock surreptitiously into his young partner's cunt, inch by broad inch of dark Rivaini shaft disappearing between the swollen folds. A satiated Flora took a short while to notice – she was drowsy from the intensity of her climax – but when she finally felt the slow push of her leader's cock, she let out a whimper of delight.

"You – you're going to…!"

"It's my turn to claim this sweet peach," Duncan replied, leaning back and adjusting the angle of his hips to sink more deeply into her. "Alistair has humped it like a Mabari in heat, Mac Tir sheathed himself at least part-way… perhaps even  _more_ , while my back was turned."

Flora giggled, a flush rising to her cheeks as she recalled the grim-faced general's heated pants on the back of her neck; his urgent thrusts; the rough, abrupt fondling of her breast.

"So now I'm going to fuck this little cunt until I'm thoroughly satisfied," the Rivaini breathed, pulling her down the last few inches onto his shaft. "And I might enjoy your ass a few times too, if I feel so inclined."

"Please," she whispered, looking up at him through her eyelashes. "Whatever you what."

Standing outside in the mud, Alistair watched in transfixed wonder as the Warden-Commander and his youngest recruit began to move together in easy, practised rhythm. The campbed let out regular squeaks of protest beneath the Rivaini's potent thrusts; the sound interspersed with Flora's breathy gasps and Duncan's animalistic grunts,

"F-feels so good," she whimpered, hips rising to meet his as his olive buttocks flexed and tensed; the battle-honed muscle repurposed to fuel deep, continuous thrusts.

"Tell me what feels good,  _qalbi,"_ he instructed, the words emerging thick and honeyed. "I want to hear that sweet mouth of yours say it."

"Your cock feels so good," his mender whispered dreamily, her eyes closed and her arms flung back over her head. "I love the way it rubs inside me."

Duncan chuckled, pausing to duck his head and press a kiss to her left nipple. The brief kiss turned into a more lingering one; the Rivaini's tongue lapping gently at his Fereldan girl's breast as she caressed the back of his head.

The more tender his kisses, the more urgent the movement of his hips; the broad shaft of his cock driving deep between her spread folds. The entire campbed lurched beneath the rhythmic thrusts; the wooden frame smacking blatantly against the canvas.

"Fuck me harder," the young healer begged, the profanity seeming especially crude coming from her lovely, solemn, "I- I'm… oh!  _So close, please, please - "_

Fortunately the hour was late enough – and the shadows deep enough – that nobody noticed the junior warden hidden at the rear of his commander's tent; frantically stroking his uncovered cock with his eye pressed to a tear in the canvas. From inside, a climaxing Flora let out a choked wail of delight, and this was enough to send Alistair careening over the edge. He pumped his fist vigorously up and down his shaft, heedless of the fact that he was pressed up against the canvas tent wall with his breeches around his knees. Moments later, spurt after spurt of hot seed splattered over his fingers as the young Theirin let out a strangled groan; climaxing simultaneously with his sister-warden as she eagerly took their commander's cock.

Voices approaching from somewhere in the darkness brought Alistair to his senses. Stuffing his wet, heavy shaft back into hastily pulled up breeches, he reluctantly tore his gaze from the frantic rutting inside the tent. The last thing he glimpsed was his dreamy-eyed being rolled over onto her stomach, while the senior warden prepared to mount her, Mabari style, from behind. His cock already glistened with oil; a hungry focus writ across his fading, handsome face.

 _No more nerves,_ Alistair thought feverishly to himself as he hurried away through the encroaching shadow.  _I'm tired of being the only unbedded Warden._   _After Flo finishes her morning duty tomorrow, I'm going to take her somewhere private, and then we'll lie together._


	32. The Grey Light of Dawn

The next day dawned grey and drizzly; a typical Fereldan autumnal morning. Water pooled in the sagging roofs of canvas tents, dripping down onto the necks of the unsuspecting and transforming loose earth into shallow, muddy puddles. The soldiers of the Royal Army – used to the fairer weather on the eastern coast – grumbled to themselves as they performed their morning duties, complaining loudly about rusting armour and rotting bedding. Cailan, who had been planning an excursion out into the nearer Wilds, sulked and made himself a general irritant to those around him. The Grey Wardens discharged their duties as normal – there was a rota for those who would accompany the soldiers on early morning patrol, as well as those posted high on the ramparts on sentry duty. Due to the mens' preference for late-night drinking and dark humour around midnight campfires, these dawn duties were some of the least popular assignations.

Flora, who had lived in an isolated fishing village for ten years, was used to rising with the sun. The tide either accompanied - or preceded - the movement of the sun, and even as a child she had been tasked with early jobs – gathering cockles, emptying the lobster-pots, or helping her dad prepare the boat for launch. Even after four years in the Circle, she had not lost the habit of waking while the world was grey and damp with night-dew; lying wide-eyed on her bedroll while the other Wardens snored around her.

To make herself useful during these quiet, still hours, Flora often volunteered for such early-morning duties. Duncan, who checked the written rota religiously every evening, found his eyes drawn to where Flora's name was written in familiar, angled cursive next to the pre-dawn patrols. The handwriting was known to the Warden-Commander because it belonged to Alistair. Flora had confessed, rather shamefacedly, to Duncan one sleepy night that she was entirely illiterate. They had once tried to teach the young mender her letters in the Circle, but the inked characters squirmed and wriggled before her eyes until they made no sense at all. After several sessions with an increasingly frustrated instructor, Flora had found herself no longer invited to class. Instead, she had been allocated more chores to complete, which suited the young northerner far better.

To his credit, Duncan had never overridden Flora's wishes and assigned her to a later, more favourably-timed duty. Several times - usually accompanied by the lingering memory of his sleepy young mender extracting herself prematurely from his embrace - his quill had hovered above her name; yet, he had never crossed it out.

Prior to that wet autumnal morning, Flora had slept at her commander's side for the entire night. This was somewhat unusual, since she preferred to return to the damp and draughty communal dormitory for at least a few hours each night. She did not explain  _why_ she chose to do so; in fact, she would have found it difficult to articulate. Partly, she wanted to make Alistair's life easier – after all, he had been assigned as her partner, meant to be keeping an eye on her in these strange initial weeks spent outside the Circle. Flora also did not want the other Wardens to believe that she was receiving any sort of preferential treatment as a result of her liaison with their commander. They were already suspicious of her due to her cold-eyed beauty and magical ability; she was reluctant to add fuel to the fire of mistrust.

After the previous evening's lovemaking, Duncan had let her nap for an hour, fingers idly running along the length of her spine. Once he heard the guard change at the entrance, he nudged her gently so that she could return to the communal dormitory tent – as was her usual preference. Yet on this occasion, she had opened one bleary eye, then pressed her face more tightly against her mentor's shoulder.

"Nnnghh- "

" _Qalbi,_ I cannot speak  _northerner."_

Flora had mumbled something incoherent and curled her fingers in the blanket. Duncan made no further effort to rouse her, but settled back against the pillows and let his arm rest around her shoulders. Privately, the Rivaini believed that she was still somewhat shaken from yesterday's injury. Although all evidence of the wound had long since vanished, Duncan could tell that Flora was not used to being  _hurt,_ especiallynot to the point of falling unconscious.

"Good girl," he had murmured in her ear, trying to keep the triumph from his voice. "Stay with me tonight."

The Warden-Commander found that he tended to sleep better with the warm and youthful body of his mender in his arms. He did not know whether it was some rejuvenative property of her exhalations that soothed his restlessness and stifled ill dreams, or whether it was the simple comfort provided by a lover's naked body. Regardless, he slept better and more restful with Flora in his arms than he had done in decades; her drowsy head against his shoulder and her bare thigh pressed to his own.

 

In the ambient miasma of pre-dawn, where everything was coloured in shades of grey, Duncan awoke with nothing but empty air in his arms. The blankets had been pushed back, a hollow pressed into the mattress where Flora had formerly lain. Grimacing, the Warden-Commander passed a rough hand across his face, wiping the sleep from his eyes. For the first time in decades, he had begun to wake without the customary bitter taste of the taint in his mouth; an inadvertent side-effect of his lover's purifying kisses.

Once his vision had cleared he caught sight of Flora almost immediately. She was sitting on the edge of the bed with her slender back turned to him, reaching down to retrieve her boots. Tendrils of oxblood hair fell to the base of her spine; the rich, inky crimson a stark contrast to the creaminess of her skin.

Pushing himself up onto an elbow, Duncan eyed his young lover; thinking that there was something oddly vulnerable about the slenderness of her naked back. There was a scattered pattern of freckles across her shoulder-blades; faint tan flecks against a pale backdrop.

" _Qalbi."_

Flora abandoned a half-hearted attempt to restrain her hair with a leather tie, twisting her head to smile shyly down at her mentor.

"Morning. I have duty soon," she whispered, still hoarse from the previous night's kisses. "I have to get my staff from under my bedroll and wash."

"I'm aware that you have duty," Duncan countered sternly, moving aside thick ropes of crimson hair so that he could kiss her neck. "Dawn patrol, for the third time this week. It is a shame,  _amira."_

Flora nodded, inhaling unsteadily as she felt the senior warden's bristled chin press into her skin; his lips branding desire on her throat. As always, her body responded eagerly to her commander's slow, deliberate kisses; a low and hungry pulse beating between her legs.

"Why – why is it a shame?" she croaked, tilting her head to allow his lips access to her throat. "Mm. Dawn patrol's  _important."_

"It is a shame," the Warden-Commander repeated, sliding his fingers down her abdomen inch by sly inch. Pleased that his recruit had already parted her thighs for him, he fondled the downy tufts of hair on her pubic mound; stroking the soft red curls with tender affection. "Because,  _qalbi,_ you are denying yourself the exquisite pleasure of  _morning sex."_

"Mo- morning sex?" she whispered wide-eyed, the words catching in her throat as the Rivaini began to paddle her little clitoris with a callused fingertip.

"A beautiful girl  _deserves_  to start off the day with pleasure rippling through her body," Duncan murmured, admiring the slick sound of her excitement against his fingertip. "Let's get you nice and relaxed before your patrol,  _amira."_

Soon the tent was echoing with the sounds of languid sex; the wet, rhythmic slap of flesh making contact, the creak of the campbed's sorely-tested frame, the determined grunts of a man and the gasps of a girl. Duncan relished each breathy moan that escaped his lover's throat; branding them into his memory for later recollection.

" _Qalbi,"_ he murmured in her ear, between hard, purposeful thrusts. "I'm setting the bar for the other men who will try and make love to you today."

"The – the others?" she mumbled, barely coherent as tendrils of pleasure unfurled between her legs. "Mm, don't stop."

"Aye," he breathed, fucking himself deep into her tight, eager heat. "Maker, this feels  _incredible._  Ah,  _Fade."_

Forcing himself to focus on his words, Duncan slowed the rate of his thrusts; reclaiming some coherency.

"Well, Mac Tir has unfinished business with this pretty cunt," he murmured, throatily. "I don't imagine he's one for foreplay, so prepare to be bent over a desk and your breeches pulled down."

Flora felt a little twist of guilty excitement at the thought of the grim-faced northerner mounting her for a second time. She had enjoyed the few thick-veined strokes that Loghain had surreptitiously given her the previous night; grunts of reluctant pleasure betraying his stoic exterior.

"And as for Alistair, I imagine the poor boy is desperate to finally sheath himself," Duncan continued, beads of sweat rising to his forehead as he drove himself between her welcoming thighs. "Now that he's seen how it's done, I imagine there'll be no stopping him. Mm,  _qalbi_ , I'm close. Play with those pretty nipples for me."

"Seen – seen how it's done?" Flora breathed, obligingly rubbing her nipples between finger and thumb. "Eh?"

"He watched us make love for over an hour last night," the Warden-Commander murmured, licking his lips as he watched his recruit fondling her own breasts. "The lad was fascinated."

"He – he watched us?" Flora whispered, blushing as she remembered how wantonly she had debauched herself for her commander. "He watched us in bed together?"

"Aye, in bed, on the floor, against the dresser," replied an amused Duncan, feeling his balls contract. "I ought to have asked him to join in, but I was feeling particularly selfish after sharing you with the sour-faced general. Besides, I haven't yet trained you to take two cocks at once – oh fuck- "

Flora inhaled with shy, unsteady excitement as her mentor came inside her; head thrown back and mouth open in a strangled cry as he shot spurt after spurt deep within.

Once the Warden-Commander had regained some composure, he eased himself out; lifting her feet by the ankles and holding them in the air, as he was accustomed to do. For reasons that he chose not to think too closely about, he wanted to keep his seed trapped in his young recruit's cunt for as long as possible.

"Remember: you only do  _this_  with me,  _amira_ ," he reminded her, sternly. "Let the seed of the general and Alistair run out."

Flora nodded, earnest and uncomprehending.

"Yes. I need to go and bathe, and fetch my staff."

After she had retrieved her clothing and was about to make her departure; Duncan reminded his young recruit gently of their agreed-upon guidelines.

"Enjoy introducing Alistair to the world of adult pleasure,  _amira,"_ he murmured, tucking a stray strand of oxblood hair behind her ear. "And ride the irritable general to your heart's content – perhaps you can put a smile on that sour face. But remember what I have claimed as my own,  _qalbi."_

The Warden-Commander reached down the back of Flora's trouser, sliding a finger between his recruit's pert buttocks until he found her tiny pucker; then petting it tenderly until she began to whimper.

"This little ass is mine," he murmured throatily, letting the tip of his finger push inside. "I'm just going to have a quick peek to last me until the evening."

Flora let out a strangled squeak, making no attempt to stop him. Instead, she dropped her head against Duncan's chest, dazed and utterly docile; feeling the cool autumnal air around her thighs. He had drawn her breeches down to expose her naked buttocks, spreading her cheeks with firm fingers to get a better view of her pucker.

"Beautiful," he breathed, thickly. "Ah, I wish I could fuck it right now."

"But I have patrol," Flora breathed, lowering her voice as the guards outside began to converse with those come to relieve them. "I- I need to go to my duty."

"Oh, you do? Well, let's see what this sweet young cunt has to say about that."

Quick as a snake, Duncan slid his free hand down the front of Flora's breeches; his fingers scissoring tenderly between her folds. The wet sounds that resulted were obscenely loud, enough to make Flora blush as she heard her own arousal.

"I don't think your blossoming flower wants you to leave. I think it wants you to get on the bed for me," he continued, a smile curling at the corner of his bearded mouth. "Let me just… check."

The Warden-Commander continued to masturbate his new recruit as she stood with knees trembling before him. His hand worked vigorously down the front of her breeches while Flora tried not to moan too wantonly; aware that they were separated from the guards by only a half-inch of canvas.

"Yes," he murmured, enjoying the click of moisture beneath his stroking fingers. "It's telling me that you need to get on the bed and spread those ripe buttocks for me."

Duncan increased the speed and concentration of his rubbing; feeling a surge of fondness within his belly as he heard his lover's helpless whimpers.

"Come on my fingers," he told her thickly, letting his smallest finger burrow a half-inch into her pinprick ass. "Good girl."

As instructed, the dutiful Flora came where she stood before him, knees trembling to the point where she almost lost her balance. A cry of helpless delight slipped from her throat; waves of pleasure rolling through her body as a dazed smile settled across her solemn and lovely face.

"Did you enjoy that,  _qalbi_?"

"Mm-  _mm._ It felt so nice, thank you."

Unable to resist, Duncan turned to the bed, eyes hungrily searching for the small vial of oil that should have been buried somewhere in the blankets. Due to the activities of recent weeks, it was already three-quarters empty.

The Warden-Commander found it beneath the pillow, smiling reflexively as he recalled one of his favourite moments from the previous night. His young lover had spent a half-candle massaging the sweet-scented oil into his veined shaft; then - deciding that she liked the taste -had used her tongue to lap it all off. On her second attempt, she had been a little too enthusiastic, rubbing the oil not only into Duncan's cock, but massaging it into his heavy sac with amateurish but eager fingers.

 _I'm not trying to get my balls in your tight little ass, qalbi,_ he had told her, amused.

The next moment, the amused smile had slipped from his face as she continued to massage the oil into his buttocks; a slick, daring finger probing more deeply than ever before.

 _Fuck, baby, don't stop,_ the senior warden had croaked, surprised at the raw pleading in his tone.  _Two fingers, all the way in._

_Mm. There's my good girl._

Back in the cold light of morning, Duncan let a smile of reminiscence creep across his face. Unfortunately, by the time that he turned back to his lover with the vial already uncorked; she had her breeches back up around her waist and was fastening the final button of her shirt.

"I have to do my  _duty,"_ Flora told the Warden-Commander sternly. "It is IMPORTANT. I'll see you later!"

"Wha- "

" _Goodbyeeee!"_

She elbowed her way out of the tent, canvas flapping in her wake.

Duncan blinked in astonishment.

A heartbeat later, Flora had burst back in. She threw her arms around her older lover's waist and gave him a hug. Duncan, inexplicably touched, embraced her back; surreptitiously inhaling the woodsmoke scent of her hair.

"I'll see you later," she promised, in her soft, flat northerner's tone; slightly gruff and without pretension. "Have a good day."


	33. Dawn Patrol

The sky was just beginning to lighten, the edge of a blood-red sun edging its way above the eastern horizon, part hidden by the natural rugged terrain of the Hinterlands. It was a cold and dreary Fereldan morning; unusual only in that the drizzle still hung suspended in the cloud. Much of Ostagar was still asleep – the king in the arms of a pretty and amoral Chantry sister, the dwarves in ale-fuelled slumber, the men and women of the Royal Army snoring within their assigned bunks and tents.

Berating herself inwardly for not leaving Duncan's bed sooner, Flora had to navigate at rapid pace through the tangle of tents and crumbling ruins. After several weeks at the old fortress, she had learnt her way around its decrepit courtyards; the crumbling towers overhead serving as landmarks.

As she scuttled around guy ropes and past piles of stray rubble, she used her fingers to heal the various marks of affection that her commander had left on her skin. This took only a touch of her fingers and a moment's concentration. Remnants of sucking kisses and soft bites faded into her skin, melting away until there was barely a hint of pinkness left. With an odd twinge of sentimentality, she left the final bruise intact; recalling how Duncan had bent his head to her collarbone and suckled gently at the ripe skin for several long moments.

 _I must leave my mark on you, qalbi,_ he had said, in the soft, faintly accented murmur she had come to know so intimately.  _Wear it as a badge of my affection._

Flora was so distracted by the memory that she failed to notice a guy rope from a nearby tent stretching across her path. The next moment, the length of cord had ensnared her foot and she went sprawling face-first onto the hard-packed mud with a grunt.

"Oof!"

"Clumsy as ever, Warden."

The familiar acerbic tones rang out over Flora's head as she picked herself up, brushing earth from her knees and turning to face the derisive observer.

The Royal General stood there with disdain writ across his face; hawkish gestures curled in a strange expression that was part-incredulous, part-mocking, and part-something inexplicable. He was fully clad in the plain and utilitarian armour he favoured, and only a glint of gold at his gauntlets indicated his station. He was flanked by two junior officers, who were trying to disguise their reluctant admiration of Flora's looks by snickering at her clumsiness.

"Enjoy your  _trip,_ mage?" commented the shorter of the officers, letting out a snort.

Flora ignored them – she had received enough mockery at the Circle for her limited talents – and instead turned her pale, curious gaze on the stern-faced General. The weak light of dawn lit up the grey streaks in his hair; his features were harsh and unforgiving, with only a faint vestige left of the handsome man he must have been in his youth.

 _The last time I saw you, I was sat wholly naked on your thigh,_ she thought to herself, fascinated by the peculiarity of circumstance.  _You drew down me onto your lap, and then tongued my breasts until they gleamed with your saliva._

_You pinched my nipples harder than Duncan had ever done. You squeezed them until I yelped, and your cock leapt with desire between my thighs._

_I can still feel the heat of your raw and excited breath on my skin. You sounded more animal than human. I was panting too, sweaty with excitement and need. It was my hand that drew yours down between my legs; spreading my thighs wide to let you fondle me more easily. You stroked me with such brutal, exquisite skill that I think someone must have taught you how to do it; some woman from your youth, maybe?_

_It felt so nice that I let you work yourself inside me. I undid the buttons of your breeches and guided you in while Duncan was pouring himself an ale. I don't know why, I just had to do it._

Loghain looked down at the young mage as Flora peered up at him; she pink-cheeked and shy, he stoic and unamused. The same memory was writ across both of their faces.

_Flora had begged the grim-faced northerner to sheathe himself fully; then sighed in bliss as he readily acquiesced. She had been the first to move, grinding experimentally on this new and unfamiliar male organ. Once she realised how good it felt, she began to rock delightedly on top of it, letting out little whimpers of satisfaction._

_Those few delicious thrusts they had shared; the veins throbbing along the length of the old general's cock as it probed the exquisite tightness of a nineteen year old's cunt. He had let out a strangled curse, perspiration beading on his forehead._

_Duncan had turned around to see his arch-rival's cock pump deep into his young lover's audibly wet slit, while she moaned in delight with her head thrown back. Cruelly, he waited until they had settled into the rhythm of a nice, slow fuck, before striding across the tent and reclaiming his young lover._

Feeling the colour rush to her cheeks Flora clambered to her feet, brushing the earth from her knees. She could sense a familiar heat prickling from the northerner as he stared wordlessly at her, the faint lip-curl of derision unable to hide the naked desire that lay beneath.

His gaze appraised the swell of her small breasts, recalling how they felt naked and cupped in his palms last night; how quickly the pink nipples had stiffened in response to the caresses of his lusty tongue.

 _I want you wet, little mage,_ he'd instructed her between laps, terse and blunt.  _I want you dripping on my fingers._

Flora guessed that the general was hard beneath his armour; he shifted like a man impatient with his constraints. Her mind was flooded with the memory of the northerner's shaft, thick and veined, rising from a nest of faded curls. She had wanted to take it between her lips the moment she had set eyes on it; curious how the prominent veins would feel against her tongue.

_Last night I whispered in his ear that I wanted to take his cock in my mouth. He told me that he'd wanted me on my knees for weeks._

As though able to divine her thoughts, the tip of the old soldier's tongue darted over his own lips to moisten them; even as his gaze swung impatiently around their surroundings. At first Flora thought that Mac Tir was trying to avoid her pale gaze, then realised that he was  _actually_  trying to decide where to take her. The general's own tent was several courtyards away, and lay beside the royal encampment.

The next moment, she saw his eyes slide sideways to a nearby pillar; toppled over against the hard dirt. Ostagar was a crumbling ruin full of debris from past Ages; a fortress littered with broken columns and half-collapsed gateways.

 _He wants to take me on top of that pillar,_ Flora realised, suddenly.  _Right here in the middle of the camp; although it's so early that no one else is awake._

_He intends to bend me over the pillar, pull my breeches down to bare my buttocks, kick my legs apart and thrust himself inside me. Maybe he'd get his officers to guard the path to make sure we weren't disturbed._

Flora felt a twinge of curious excitement between her legs. At the same moment, she heard a reproving echo within her skull; a chiding and insistent voice that had nothing to do with her spirits, and everything to do with her own conscience.

_You have duty!_

"I have duty!" she said out loud, wide-eyed and louder than was necessary.

Loghain's eyebrows shot up into his hairline, even as his brow began to crease with displeasure.

"I can have you relieved from it," he replied, a mild irritation in his tone. "Send someone in your place."

The suggestion that she should be  _excused_ from her duty only stoked the fires of Flora's resolution.

"No," she replied, indignantly. "Duty is  _important."_

Without hesitation, the young recruit turned around and scuttled off before her own inappropriate desires could betray her; her eyes fixed determinedly on the wash-tent.

Once she had arrived, Flora managed to skip the queue of yawning and reluctant soldiers who had been instructed to take a bath by taking the water that had not yet been heated. The beleaguered clerk in charge of the wash-tent managed to summon a screen, dragging it before a copper tub of freezing-cold water just as Flora fumbled her tunic over her head.

"Are you sure you don't want the water heated?"

"No, thank you!"

"It's fresh from the well, Warden. It's  _freezing!"_

"I'm from the north coast!" Flora replied, proud and defiant. "We bathe in the waters of the Waking Sea! A cold bath is how I'm  _used_ to beginning my morning!"

 

Ten minutes later, Flora emerged from the wash-tent in a state of mild shock; her hair plastered to her cheeks and her very  _bones_ numbed to the core. Teeth chattering and indignant, she shuffled down through Ostagar's maze of courtyards and crumbling balconies towards the main bastion.

 _Why was that so traumatic?!_ she thought indignantly to herself.

 ** _You may have spent your childhood plunging into the Waking Sea,_** her spirits chided her gently.  ** _But you've been taking magic-heated baths in the Circle for the past four years._**

 _Oh,_ Flora returned miserably in response.

_Well, that's unacceptable! I'm going to accept nothing but freezing wash-tubs from now on._

Once her frigid fingers had begun to respond normally, she bundled her unruly mass of dark red hair into a plump braid. Her staff, slung over her shoulder on a leather strap, swung around awkwardly as she reached behind her, one end colliding with a pillar. Muttering, Flora manhandled it back into place as best she could, her undershirt pulling free from where she had tucked it into her breeches.

Worried that she was going to be late, the young recruit scuttled down through the shadowed courtyards and crumbling balconies of the ancient Tevinter fortress. She wove her way through the remnants of colonnades, where the cracked bases of pillars jutted up from the earth like broken teeth. The sun was just spilling its way over the eastern horizon, red fingers slowly creeping across the Southron Hills; which themselves were far older than the manmade construction perched precariously atop them.

Finally, Flora arrived breathless at the main entrance to the camp, a vast and decrepit bastion gate held together with wooden scaffolds. To her surprise, a servant was waiting there patiently with three horses in hand; nobody else was in sight save for a half-drunk dwarf slumped near the postern.

Flora came to an abrupt halt, red-cheeked from the rapidity of her pace.

"Am I late?" she croaked, then cleared her throat and repeated the question in slightly more coherent tones.

The servant, whose attention vacillated between the pale-eyed, finely-hewn architecture of Flora's face, and the intimidating length of arcane-infused wood slung over her back, gave the same answer as he did every morning.

"No, Warden. As always, you're on time, and the others are late."

"Oh! Oh. They are?"

"No-one cares about dawn patrol," continued the servant, a touch scornfully. "The Darkspawn never attack when it's getting light. That's why they're called  _Dark_ spawn."

Flora was not sure of the  _truth_ of the servant's statement, but she made no attempt to question him further. Instead, she unslung her staff from her shoulder and sat down on a convenient chunk of granite to wait.

Almost a quarter-candle passed, and there was no sign of the soldiers or the Templar meant to accompany her. Flora, increasingly anxious and uncertain how to proceed, kept shooting glances towards the impatient servant. Only a few weeks out of a Circle, she did not feel equipped to make such a decision. The sun continued to edge its way upwards, ochre light spilling over the crumbling stone and fir-crested hills.

 _"I'm_ not supposed to tell you what to do, sweetheart," the retainer snapped eventually, returning her glances with an irritated glower.  _"You're_  the Warden. I'm just some lordling's fetch-and-carry boy."

Flora made up her mind, clambering to her feet and retrieving her staff from where it had lain unceremoniously on the floor.

"I'll go out and do it," she said, quashing the immediate surge of self-doubt. "I know the route."

The retainer glanced across at her, and then gave an idle shrug.

"Eh, fine. Take the horse."

"Can I have a leg-up?"

Mounting the horse still proved difficult for Flora, even with the assistance of the yawning servant. Her staff swung wildly on its strap and hit him in the face; he swore and let go of her leg. She almost went slithering off the other side of the saddle, restraining herself by grabbing a panicked handful of the horse's mane. Both horse and man looked deeply unimpressed, the latter muttering darkly under his breath as he touched his tender nose.

"Sorry," Flora breathed, pushing the strap of her staff back up her shoulder while seated tentatively on the saddle. "Is it broken? Do you need me to fix it?"

"No," he retorted, grumpily. "Eh, you're only a recruit. Sure you can do this patrol?"

An indignant Flora nodded, clutching the reins with the clumsy grasp of an amateur.

"Of course!"

The retainer shot her a dubious look, then gave a shrug; stepping back out of the horse's path.

"As you wish, Warden."

The sun crested the horizon, spilling crimson light like red wine across the faded grey stone. The forested slopes of the Southron Hills began to lighten in slow increments; though there was not enough heat in the air to melt the silvered veils of cloud that hung above the trees. Strangely enough, the rising sun seemed to have no dominion over the tangled swamps of the Korcari Wilds; which lay in a state of perpetual miasmic gloom to the south.

The main route out of Ostagar was the long, thin stone bridge that spanned the whole breadth of the valley. Although the Tevinter fortress had once consisted of two identical bastions on either side of the span, the western structure had long since crumbled into inevitable decay. Its watchtower lay in ruins, and a forest of tangled growth had reclaimed the fallen stone. Anybody who wanted to reach the main camp – on the eastern side of the valley – had to pass first through its abandoned cousin, then cross the high bridge between them.

It was cool enough that Flora could see her own breath in the air before her; as a child of the north coast, she barely noticed the chill temperatures. The navy and silver tabard of the Wardens was thin linen and provided neither protection nor warmth. Yet she wore no overcoat or tunic over her shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up to her elbows. Flora clutched the reins of the horse, nudging it tentatively forward along the narrow, arcing bridge. She was not afraid of heights – she had spent four years sneaking up to the Circle tower roof to gaze in the direction of the northern coast – but the forested valley floor was a  _long_ way below.

"Right," she said, her voice sounding oddly hollow in the cold expanse of air. "Let's go. Hm, do you think I can eat this apple and ride at the same time?"

**_No._ **

Flora pouted at her spirits' lack of confidence in her. Rashly deciding to make an attempt at breakfast regardless, she took one hand off the reins to reach for the apple inside her tunic pocket.

The next moment, Flora had to clutch wildly at the pommel of the saddle as she lost her balance, one foot slipping free of the stirrup.

"Aaah!"

**_…_ **

**_As we thought._ **


	34. The Ogre

Flora was not the sort of girl who gave up easily. Gripping the horse's flanks determinedly between her thighs, she managed to work her hand into her tunic and retrieve the apple. With a disproportionate sense of triumph, she sunk her teeth into the sweet meat of the fruit, trying in vain to avoid biting on strands of her own hair. This was difficult due to the height of the bridge; the wind plucked tendrils from her braid and lashed them into her face.

From the elevated position of the stone spur, she had the best view of the forested valley and the surrounding Southron Hills. The fir trees stood out like the bristles of a paint brush dipped in dark green paint; ending abruptly at the banks of a stony stream in the very base of the valley. On the eastern horizon, the sun had just crested the trees; a crimson ball of flame that sent creeping fingers of light over the hills. These tendrils of gold skirted the murky edges of the Wilds, as though deliberately avoiding the southern swamp.

 _Everything down there looks so peaceful,_ Flora thought wistfully to herself, swallowing a mouthful of apple.  _It's strange to think of an enemy army hidden somewhere within those trees._

_I wonder if the Darkspawn have tents and campfires too. Maybe they sleep in trees?_

_Can Darkspawn climb?_

Flora was so preoccupied with her inane thoughts, that it took her a moment to realise that the horse beneath her had come to an abrupt halt. If she was a more experienced rider, she would have noticed it's soft whicker of alarm; the pricking of it's ears; the rapid lashing of a tail. Instead, she was still squinting down at the trees in the valley below, wondering if the Darkspawn slept in  _nests._

By the time that Flora noticed their cessation of movement, the horse was shifting beneath her as though ready to turn and bolt.

"Horse," she said, reaching forward to pat it's neck, tentatively. "Horse, calm down. What's wro- "

She stopped abruptly as her gaze aligned itself along the same angle as the frightened horse's stare.

There was a shape moving at the far end of the narrow bridge, silhouetted against the shadowed stone. It was vast – even at a distance – and vaguely humanoid, although it's proportions were grossly swollen; augmented by iron armour that seemed to be bolted into its very flesh. Two horns, each wizened and cracked with age, rose up at a height of several feet from a bulbous, malformed skull. There was something obscene about its presence amongst the crumbled remains of the ruined fortress; it moved with its heavy head hung low, like something serpentine.

At the same moment, Flora felt the  _pull_ at the back of her own skull; the vague and unrefined warning that suggested that Darkspawn were near. Slightly exasperated with her own undeveloped senses – and wondering if it anything to do with her own body's natural counter-measuring of poisons – Flora swallowed a hard lump in her throat and wondered what to do.

_That creature must be an ogre. Alistair described them the other day around the campfire. I thought that they sounded like the giants we sometimes used to get wandering the beach at Herring._

Flora had macabre visions of the terrible behemoth running rampage through the courtyards and balconies of Ostagar with bestial fury; tearing its way through tents and scattering half-awake soldiers like leaves in a gale.

**_It can't be allowed to reach the camp._ **

_If I turn the horse around and ride really quickly back to the east fortress, I can raise the alarm._

Just then, the horse beneath Flora grew tired of the paralysed indecision of its rider. It lurched around in a panicked lurch and bolted back towards the main camp with a strangled squeal of terror. Flora, who had made a frantic grab at its neck to keep herself on, lost her grasp and slithered off the saddle. She landed with a hard and painful bump on her rear, her staff clattering to the flagstones beside her.

For a moment Flora sat there on the narrow bridge, mouthing silently, the wind knocked from her.

_Ouch! That hurt more than I thought it would._

**_Get up! A bruised rear is the least of your concerns._ **

Flora scrambled to her feet and retrieved her staff from where it had fallen. Brushing windswept hair away from her eyes, she returned her gaze to the creature that  _must_ be an ogre. For a moment she could not see its grotesque shape against the foliage-covered stone of Ostagar's abandoned eastern camp, then realised – with a sickening roll of alarm – that it was  _on the bridge_ already, loping towards her with the focus of a predator sighting prey.

 _It's faster than a Storm Coast giant,_ Flora thought to herself in a panic, taking her staff in hand.  _How can something so big be so quick? It doesn't seem fair. Can the scouts in the watchtowers see this? Will they send help?_

**_You have to stop it from reaching the camp._ **

_But I'm frightened._

**_Even so._ **

The wind danced around the high span of stone, teasing free strands of hair from Flora's untidy braid, and then flinging them playfully in her face. The sunlight had almost reached their part of the valley; a dim, misty autumnal glow lending a strange beauty to the crumbled architecture of the fortress. The ogre – whose eyes were tiny and set deep into its sunken skull – seemed even more an alien presence against the vaporous light of dawn.

Flora had begun to walk towards the ogre, feeling a little as though she were heading towards the gallows. At a sharp admonition from her spirits, she increased her pace to a run; staff tucked awkwardly beneath her elbow.

The ogre, seeing its lone adversary accelerate, gave a bellow of triumph that echoed from one side of the valley to the other. It dropped to all fours – each meaty hand capable of tearing a horse limb from limb – and began to bound towards her. The bridge did not tremble beneath the crushing weight of the bloated Darkspawn, since it was Tevinter-made and exceptionally sturdy; but dust and stray fragments of stone worked themselves loose from ancient fixings and fell to the valley floor below.

 _Don't panic!_ Flora thought to herself as she ran down the narrow course, wondering if she might actually be sick.  _They'll have heard that thing roaring in the camp. They'll send all the Wardens out. A whole contingent of the Royal Army._

_I just need to delay it for a bit._

Then there was no more time for thought, because she had reached the midpoint of the stone bridge, and the ogre was almost upon her. It had little in the way of armour save for the rusted iron scythes bolted into the flesh of its arms, its body crossed with weathered leather strapping. To Flora's horror, she realised that there were  _parts_ of old opponents still caught up on the ogre's body – an anonymous hunk of flesh impaled on one of the meat-hooks, several slender limbs caught by chance within the leather strapping – like crumbs clinging to one's tunic after eating a meal.

_Twenty yards._

Flora came to an abrupt halt in the centre of the bridge, eyes widening and heart accelerating to a terrified staccato. The stone beneath her boots was shaking with the force of its approach; she fumbled the staff from beneath her elbow.

_Fifteen yards._

**_You're a shield mage as well as a healer. This is what you do. It's all you can do, remember?_ **

The creature did not stop as it saw her, vast and bloodied jaw hanging open to scent its prey. It clearly intended to charge straight through this most insignificant of opponents; by tearing her asunder with a snap of its maw, or smashing her against the stone with a distracted fist. It closed the distance between them in a span of heartbeats; now only a breath away, preparing to spring.

_Five yards._

Flora closed her eyes, feeling the familiar rush of heat through the channels of her body. Her staff grew momentarily hot in her hands; the wood humming with Fade-fuelled energy.

The ogre went crashing straight into the silver-gold barrier that materialised across the bridge; a filmy sheath no more substantial than a soap-bubble. The ogre fell backwards, a roar of maddened rage tearing from its throat as it went rolling bodily across the stone.

The majority of the collision had been absorbed by the ethereal shield, yet the residual shock was still strong enough to send Flora sprawling backwards on her rear. The shield disintegrated as she let go of the staff, the wooden length clattering over the flagstones.

Breathless, she scrambled frantically for it as the ogre lurched upright. The creature, maddened at this ant's attempt to waylay it, lunged towards her with arms outstretched.

A terrified Flora darted to one side; one massive fist pounding the flagstones where she had been standing into shards of lim stones. She then tripped over her own feet, falling face-first onto the bridge as dust rose about her.

Fortunately, this second tumble put her within reach of her staff. Flora grabbed the end of the wood with her fingers and pulling it towards her. The shield erupted from one end, rising just in time to block a punch from a fist the diameter of a shield. More prepared for the jarring impact this time, Flora gripped the wood tight, staring up at the ogre as it bellowed. Its features were oddly distorted by the shifting, gilded light of her shield; though the malice in its small, reptilian eyes was unmistakeable.

Another attempt was made to smash through the barrier, unsuccessful as the first. Flora flinched, the dust from the loosened stone clinging to her sweaty face. The bellowing was terrible to hear; there was a horrible, almost-human quality to it.

**_Stop closing your eyes!_ **

_I can't help it. I'm scared._

**_Come now, child. You can't lie on this bridge forever._ **

The shield streamed forth in a torrent of metallic effulgence as Flora scrambled upright, keeping the staff aloft in a hand. The barrier elongated, curving like wings to cover her flanks as the beast snarled in demented, frustrated fury. A reddish froth spilled from its mouth; the smell was so fetid that Flora felt her stomach churn.

**_Push it back. Remember that coast-giant that came too close to Herring?_ **

Flora took a tentative step forwards, letting her barrier nudge against the vast bulk of the Darkspawn. The ogre dug in its clawed feet and scrambled at the stone for purchase, yet it could not resist the hesitant, inexorable nudge of the shield. It began to retreat, fighting for each yard of stone; rage twisting the malformed features into something even more grotesque.

**_Good girl. Keep going._ **

Flora felt sick with fright, her heart racing so rapidly that she thought it might burst out from between her ribs. Yet she gritted her teeth and kept shuffling forwards; step by step; nudging the furious and thrashing ogre back along the bridge.

Just then, the clarion blast of a trumpet rang out from the bastion far behind her; someone in the occupied part of Ostagar had noticed the approaching enemy.

Flora, her nerves already on edge, was so distracted by the brassy echo that her concentration faltered. Correspondingly, the strength of the barrier flickered, just for a second, yet the ogre saw it and lunged. One hand swung like a battering ram and hit the staff. Flora reflexively let the length of wood go; then watched in horror as it sailed over the edge of the bridge and plummeted out of sight, tumbling to the valley floor below.

_! Help!_

**_Focus!_ **

The ogre made a triumphant lunge towards the exposed Flora. She threw up her hands reflexively; silvered light streamed from her fingers and formed a glimmering shield around her. The Darkspawn let out a bellow of disbelief, storming back and forth around the trembling young mage as she stared up at it from behind her self-summoned shield.

**_You didn't have a staff when you saw off that sea-giant in Herring. But this isn't sustainable, child. End it now._ **

Flora found that she had more control over the gleaming fluctuations of the barrier when it streamed forth from beneath her fingernails; although the process itself was prickling and uncomfortable. Taking a deep breath, she  _shoved_ the shield forwards in a clumsy lunge. The ogre staggered backwards as though punched by something even larger and more powerful.

**_One more._ **

Flora, sweat breaking out on her forehead despite the cool, autumnal temperatures, thrust the gleaming barrier forwards once more. The ogre toppled back, and fell against the low wall that marked the boundary between bridge and valley. It was not designed to resist the weight of something so vast and bloated; the stone broke apart like Orlesian icing. The ogre, shocked that it had been bested by something so small and insignificant, fell into oblivion without a sound.

Flora stared at the broken wall, wide-eyed and equally stunned. She let her hands drop, the shield dissolving into wisps and curlicues of golden light about her. Her fingertips stung, her palms felt as though she had pressed them against the side of a cooking-pot. The flesh was pink and sore; the aftermath of channeling raw energy direct from the Fade.

The next moment, a ghastly howl tore through the air like a blade; the air before her blurring as something materialised from the ether. It was a Darkspawn, but like none that Flora had ever seen – humanoid but hunched over, rusted blades strapped to scrawny forearms; snakelike features and ears that were oddly elven.

Flora had just enough time to look up in alarm when the creature staggered backwards, a familiar silver sword hurled with pinpoint accuracy between its ribs. Impaled in the heart, it crashed onto the broken flagstones and began to contort in death throes; blackened blood creeping in rivulets between the tiles.

"Ogres are often accompanied by shrieks," came the observing comment, in a faintly-accented and wholly familiar voice; dry, neutral and yet with a raw undercurrent of concern. "You can detect their presence by a faint flickering in the air."

Flora turned, her aching hands hanging at her thighs; wide-eyed at the sheer quantity of people who had arrived on the bridge. The king was there, one foot raised on the stone, peering over the edge of the broken wall to the forested firs below. He was surrounded by knights, who were all disappointedly sheathing their swords and grumbling to themselves. Loghain Mac Tir stood near the edge of the noble crowd with a face like thunder; eyes flashing with displeasure and his jaw set in a grim line. The royal commander was accompanied by a small detachments of troops, each man armed to the teeth.

In the forefront of the crowd stood Duncan, his griffon-engraved armour polished to a sheen; not a single faded hair out of place from the Rivaini-style ponytail he customarily wore. His expression was carefully neutral, though his dark eyes bore into Flora like twin darts. His second silver sword was gripped loosely in a gloved hand; its twin was lodged firmly within the twitching Darkspawn's ribcage.

"An  _ogre!"_ bemoaned Cailan, sheathing his blade with one final, regret-filled glance down into the valley. "I would  _love_  to have killed an ogre. Imagine how it's head would look mounted on the wall. I'd have put it above the great hearth in my chambers back in the palace. Dora, you should have kept the creature alive until I'd got here!"

Flora stared at the king with raw incredulity. This unsubtle expression was mirrored by Loghain, although the general's gaze was accompanied by an edge of derision.

"Um," she mumbled after a moment, wringing her sore hands and casting her gaze to the broken flagstones. "Sorry."

"My recruit has nothing to apologise for, Cailan," interjected Duncan, his voice cutting through the king's response like a freshly-sharpened blade. "It is a Warden's duty to destroy Darkspawn, and she has carried out her duty… very well. It is no small feat to dispose of an ogre single-handedly."

Only those experienced in the art of analysing conversation would had noticed the flicker of warmth in the senior warden's tone; the infinitesimal softening of his gaze when he turned it on Flora. Flora, who had quickly reclaimed her northerner's stoicism, blinked back at him. Even the fact that – less than an hour ago – she had been clinging to her mentor's shoulders as he laboured away above her did not break her neutrality of expression.

The faint edge of warmth faded from the Warden-Commander's tone as he turned back to those gathered on the damaged bridge.

"Get the dwarven engineers down here to check the bridge," he instructed shortly, mouth fixing itself in an unamused line. "It certainly wasn't designed to support the weight of an ogre. Meanwhile, we'll reconvene in the operations tent to discuss  _why_ my recruit was on patrol alone."

As they began to make their way back towards the eastern fortress, Duncan allowed his stride to slow; gradually letting the soldiers, guards and other Wardens overtake him. Flora, who had the shortest legs and therefore the shortest stride, was trudging discontentedly at the back of the crowd. She was inserting each of her fingers into her mouth in turn, letting the rejuvenative properties of her tongue soothe the painful, stinging flesh. Her expression was dejected; the young mage was miserable at the loss of her staff. She had very few personal possessions, and the staff had been given to her four years prior on her first arrival at the Circle.

Lost in her thoughts, Flora startled when she felt a brief, tender touch against the back of her neck; a fleeting caress from a calloused thumb to her hair. It lasted only a second – Duncan was mindful of the impression he wished to project to Ostagar – but the gesture held volumes of unspoken emotion.

When she looked up at him, he was watching her closely from the corner of his dark Rivaini eye; lined with a fine lattice of creases.

"Are you alright?" he murmured, letting the wail of the wind around the crumbling architecture muffle his query.

"Mm," replied Flora gloomily, taking her little finger from her mouth. "Am I in trouble?"

The commander let out a short, startled bark of laughter, a furrow creasing itself into his olive brow.

"Why would you be in  _trouble?_ With who, the king? For not waiting for Cailan to share in the kill?"

Flora, who had not even  _considered_ this as a possibility, began to bite anxiously at her thumbnail. Duncan shook his head, lowering his tone still further as they approached the crumbling bastion that marked the entrance into the fortress.

" _Qalbi,_ I promise you that you are not in trouble. On the contrary, I am  _proud_  of you."

Such words had not been uttered to Flora in her living memory. Her face transformed itself into the rare fixture of a beam; the full, sulky mouth inverting itself and her pale eyes igniting with shy delight.

Duncan noticed his recruit's transparent delight and felt an odd twist of poignancy within his gut. He almost said more but they had just passed beneath the gate; and were immersed back in the stream of activity that was the army camp. Instead of speaking anything else, he cleared his throat and strode forwards; assuming the mantle of Warden-Commander once again.

Cailan had decided to call for a game hunting party to distract himself from the trauma of such a missed opportunity. While the king and his noble companions called for weapons, hounds and supplies, Duncan, Loghain and several others convened inside the main operations tent to discuss  _why_ Flora had been undertaking patrol alone. This was a large, canvas structure in the centre of the camp; containing several yellowed maps pinned to boards around the room, yet another map covered with wooden figurines stretched across a table, and a cluttered tangle of chairs, desks and ale-bottles strewn at its borders.

Thus followed one of the strangest hours that Flora had ever passed. She had never been inside the command tent before – she was far too low on the hierarchy of importance to even come  _near_ it in normal circumstances.

Now, she was stood at the far end of the map-table, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably while Duncan and Loghain exchanged irritable discourse above her head. Flora was meant to have been accompanied by two soldiers from the Royal Army, and protocol dictated that – as a mage - she be accompanied by a Templar.

"I don't see why it's an issue," retorted Loghain, his mouth drawn into a taut and unamused line. "Your mender is clearly able to defend herself. Does she even  _need_ accompaniment? Clearly she lacks the arrogance required of a true Warden."

Duncan let out a snort that was part irritation and part amusement, his eyes flashing in response to the general's deliberate provocation.

"I thought you were a stickler for protocol, Mac Tir," he retorted, snidely. "Isn't that something you routinely accuse me of neglecting? Well, a four-man patrol is standard. Which begs the question: where were your men?"

This was one of the most peculiar situations that Flora had ever been in; compounded by the myriad of undercurrents that ran, like veins of mage-lightning, between those present in the canvas chamber. A tension of more than one kind hummed in the air; adding a frisson to the atmosphere.

The general's eyes kept returning to Flora's high breasts, which pressed against the fabric of her linen shirt. The previous night, he had taken one pert little breast into his mouth. It had felt like a fruit just on the brink of ripeness; firm, with a hint of yielding.

Flora could feel Mac Tir's hawkish stare on her, his gaze peeling away layers of clothing until she stood naked before him. She dropped her eyes demurely to her boots, more to hide the shy arousal flickering across her solemn-featured face.

The three of them were alone in the tent; a secretary had been sent to fetch the missing soldiers. The interior of the canvas was shadowed, lit only by a free-standing brazier in one corner.

Duncan was more than aware that his recruit was being mentally undressed by his old rival; that Flora was as good as naked in the eyes of Loghain. Amused, despite the morning's aggravation, he decided to take advantage of their momentary privacy.

"Our exertions last night clearly did not wear you out sufficient,  _amira,"_ the commander said, softening his tone as he turned to his rosy-cheeked recruit. "If you have enough energy to chase down ogres."

Flora peered up at her mentor from beneath her eyelashes, her mind flooded with memories of the previous night. As an inherently competitive man, Duncan's ardour had been fuelled by the thought of Alistair's tentative lips around Flora's nipple; and the general's furtive thrusts between her welcoming folds. Determined to demonstrate his superiority in the bedchamber, he had taken her in every way possible over the course of the night; she had enjoyed his cock in her mouth twice and he had spent a candle-length with his face nestled between her thighs. It had been a sexual marathon made possible only by the renewing vigour of their Warden-tainted blood.

Even  _recalling_  some of the things they had done together made her cheeks pinken and her heartbeat leap forwards; Flora shifted on the rush matting and dropped her gaze shyly to her feet.

Duncan let out a low, knowing chuckle; an undercurrent of desire running through the sound. With tantalising, deliberate slowness he let his hand move towards her, calloused fingers outstretched. Flora bit at her lip and peered up at him through her eyelashes; the demureness of her expression contradicted by the excited pulse in her throat.

Duncan let his fingers rest on the curve of his recruit's breast, tracing the swell of fresh through the linen. As Flora inhaled unsteadily, he turned his hand to cup the pert little mound; squeezing it with tender affection.

"Beautiful," he murmured throatily, enthralled by the ripeness of his young lover's breast. "You've the most delicious body,  _qalbi._ Do you think you could let me see one of those sweet pink nipples?"

Loghain let out a snort of irritation, aware that he was being deliberately goaded. Still, he could not tear his eyes away from Flora's fingers, which were fumbling at the strings of her shirt.

Instead of letting her lover glimpse the hint of a nipple, she loosened the entire front of the shirt; letting the linen drape open and baring both of her breasts. Both men let out muffled sighs of admiration; their eyes drinking in the high, creamy mounds and rosy tips.

Duncan licked his lips in preparation; his erection already painful within his breeches.

"Do you want to get fucked on the map table,  _amira?"_ he murmured, enjoying her blushes at the crudeness of his desire. "Or shall I mount you on all fours like a bitch in heat?"

In a single, swift gesture the Warden-Commander's hand had slid down the front of Flora's breeches; his fingers audibly working her slick folds as she whimpered.

"Hear how excited she is at the thought of taking me, Mac Tir?" Duncan called across the tent, savouring each wet caress.

"Aye," agreed the general, managing to be sarcastic even when in a state of arousal. "Her cunt sounds almost as wet as when I took it last night. You enjoyed our brief encounter, didn't you, lass?"

Flora nodded shyly; recalling the delicious, veined breadth of Loghain's cock. Both of them had been startled at how nicely it had fit within her; the two northerners proving highly compatible in  _one_ area at least.

Duncan skilfully stole Flora's attention back by drawing her against him, withdrawing his hand from between her legs just long enough to slide her breeches down her thighs. In one swift tug, he revealed the downy triangle of crimson hair between her legs; taking a moment to stroke the soft curls with a calloused thumb.

"I'm going to take all this hair off with my shaving blade later,  _qalbi,"_ he informed her tenderly, as if they were alone in the tent. "I want to taste the creamy skin of your cunt."

Flora let out a squeak of acquiescence, her eyes half-closing with pleasure as she felt strong arms embrace her from behind. Duncan's fingers made their way back between her legs while his other hand fondled her naked breast; his lips pressing raw desire into her neck.

The general's cock strained against his armour as he watched the commander of the Grey efficiently pleasure his young recruit; who was rapidly losing the ability to remain steady on her feet.

Just then, there came abashed voices at the entrance to the tent: the errant soldiers had been found, and were being escorted to face their reckoning. They exchanged brief conversation with the sentries posted at either side of the doorway; then there followed a rustle of canvas as they made entrance to the tent.

An amused Duncan withdrew his hand leisurely, while using his other to pull up Flora's breeches. Flora, who could not accomplish such suave nonchalance, promptly fell over; stunned by the sudden transition from pleasure to  _nothingness_.

Duncan dropped his dark gaze to where his lover was sprawled on the matting, momentarily taken aback. It took the Warden-Commander only a second to regain his composure – but by the time that he had returned his glare to the recalcitrant soldiers; somebody had already opened up a furious verbal volley in their direction.

"How  _dare_  you neglect your duties?" snarled Loghain, incandescent with anger. "It's an embarrassment to your unit, to the Royal Army, and  _to me._ You let a girl fresh out of a Circle undertake your patrol for you. It's a fucking disgrace!"


	35. Free Time

Loghain continued to rail at his neglectful soldiers, the northern edge to his voice emerging stronger in his anger. He berated the cringing pair for a solid half-candle, temper ebbing and flowing like the tide; just when they thought his rage was expended, it would surge back to the fore with fresh vigour.

“… supposed to be  _professional!_  Not some fucking farmer with a pitchfork.”

“Farmers tend not to neglect their duties,” Duncan observed laconically from the other side of the map table, content to let Loghain castigate his men. “Or else they don’t keep their farms for long.”

“Aye,” snarled the general; the commanders in a rare moment of agreement. “ _Less_  professional than a fucking farmer, the pair of them!”

While Loghain’s wrath rang between the canvas walls of the tent, Duncan was preoccupied with the gentle curve of Flora’s spine, his hand wandering over the slender realm of her back in a subtle caress. Fortunately, she had not tucked her shirt into her breeches; his fingers brushed affectionately over ripe, warm skin.

Flora bit her lip with the effort of restraint; her instinct told her to lean back into the caress of the calloused hand. Yet she was also aware that she was a Warden – albeit a very junior one – and that Duncan had to maintain certain professional standards, in public at least. She was already worried that his liaison with her might reflect poorly on him; she did not want to be seen as a distraction from the commander’s fulfilment of his duty.

Despite this - for some reason - she did not count Loghain as part of the public, since he and Duncan clearly went back a long way. The ease and readiness with which Duncan had fondled her before the general suggested that there was a certain level of familiarity between the two commanders; a relationship that combined both rivalry, wariness and a sharp edge of competition.

Duncan, in contrast to Flora’s belief, did not give a shit about the two chastened soldiers, save for his anger regarding their neglect to attend patrol. He continued to caress his young healer’s naked back with affectionate fingers, recalling the glittering sheath that she had conjured across the breadth of the narrow bridge.

 _An impressive piece of casting, and that was after her staff had been knocked to oblivion,_ he thought idly to himself, stroking his callused thumb over the ridges of Flora’s spine and feeling her quiver obligingly in response.

Once Loghain’s rage appeared to have been expended, the general let out a loud huff of irritation; his dark eyes swinging across to Duncan’s impassive, olive-skinned countenance at the other side of the map table.

“Do you have anything you wish to say to this pair of miscreants, Warden? Or are you content to let me do all the hard work, as usual?”

Duncan let out a low and amused snort; letting the tail of Flora’s shirt fall back down over her breeches. He let his own gaze – richer and more penetrating than even Loghain’s hardened stare – settle on the two soldiers. They both had their own eyes fixed firmly on their feet and so he paused before speaking, deliberately waiting until they had both raised their heads with curious trepidation.

_These men would let a girl a month out of a Circle undertake their duty for them._

Once he had snared their eyes with his own dark stare, the Warden-Commander let his words lash out like the darting lunge of a Rivaini rattlesnake; swift and laced with deadly promise.

“Endanger my recruit again and I’ll kill you both myself,” he said, flat and without pretence. “Get out of my sight.”

The soldiers fled from the tent, stumbling over each other’s feet in an effort to reach the exit first. A shaft of insipid morning sunlight fell across the rush matting as the door-flap was pushed open; then rapidly stifled as it dropped once again. Muffled noises from outside echoed faintly through the canvas – the fortress of Ostagar was beginning to rouse itself for the day – but the tent itself was very quiet, like the peculiar calm that followed after a storm.

Loghain tapped his fingers in an irritated staccato against the map table, face set in a scowl. Duncan, the anger draining rapidly, let out a long exhalation; half-wondering if he had been too severe with the soldiers.  _After all,_ the Warden-Commander thought,  _he himself had neglected quite a few obligations as a roguish young recruit._

“Is anyone doing the dawn patrol?” asked Flora into the silence.

Duncan smiled at the contrast between his own recollections and his worried junior counterpart.

“Flora, you’re relieved from duty until tomorrow,” he said, softly. “You’ve more than done your part for today.”

Flora looked mildly appalled: she was a northerner, with all the natural industriousness that this rugged coastline instilled in its occupants.

“What… what should I  _do?”_  she breathed, irrationally anxious at the thought of a day stretching out before her with no task or job to fill it.

Duncan almost laughed at the expression on his pretty young lover’s face; the corner of his mouth curving upwards in amusement.

“Whatever you wish to do,  _qalbi_. Sleep, eat. Relax.”

Flora pulled a grimace at  _relax_ , but the first of his suggestions had a certain appeal.

“I might have a nap,” she said after a moment, her brow furrowed. “I’m a bit tired.”

Duncan laughed, eyes glittering wickedly as the implication of Flora’s words hung like a bright pennant in the air.

_Worn out from the exertions of last night, my lusty little creature. Going straight from one man to another; protesting when the general’s cock was removed and sighing in relief as mine replaced it._

“I think that’s an excellent idea,  _zahra,”_ he murmured, tilting her face towards him with a finger beneath her chin. “You can save up your energy for tonight.”

As he had predicted, the cool alabaster of Flora’s cheeks began to blossom into pink. Before she could drop her gaze shyly to her boots, he leaned forward and captured her mouth in a kiss that was originally meant to be brief. As usual, the soft ripeness of his recruit’s full lips proved addictive, and Duncan worked them with lust-fuelled vigour; his tongue seeking out hers in a wrestle of mutual desire. She gasped into his mouth, made weak at the knees even with his hand on her back.

Loghain let out a sound of faint, not entirely convincing exasperation; his keen eyes honing in on the small indicators of Flora’s arousal. He could see her small breast rising and falling in a pant of unashamed excitement; the slight tremble of her legs; the instinctual press of her body against her commander. The general realised, to his annoyance, that he wanted – in no small degree – to take Duncan’s red-headed mage to bed. He was unsure whether this urge was due to his long-lasting rivalry with the Warden-Commander, or simply because the girl was beautiful in a way that Loghain had not seen in a very long time.

 _Or because she’s a northerner, and speaks plain and without pretension. Unlike some I could mention,_  the general thought darkly to himself.  _Such as my daughter’s blasted husband._

Duncan reluctantly loosed his grip on his lover, letting her settle back down on the rush matting. She wore a slightly dazed expression; conversely, the senior Warden was filled with the flood of vigour that followed in the wake of Flora’s rejuvenative kiss.

“I, on the other hand, have many obligations that I must attend to,” he said softly, brushing a stray strand of hair from her cheek. “I’ll send for you later, dove.”

Flora smiled up at him, and Duncan half-wondered if she would embrace him again; as she had done when leaving his tent that morning. Instead, she stood on her toes – with a hand against his chest to steady herself – and kissed him very sweetly on the cheek; face still pink with the remnants of earlier blushes. After darting a quick, curious look at Loghain from beneath her eyelashes, she left the tent with a soft rustle of canvas, disappearing into the grey light of morning.

“I’m surprised you didn’t clear your diary,” Loghain observed snidely, adjusting a toppled figure on the map-table. “You’re aware that I might reorganise my own schedule, and spend all day between those shapely thighs? I wager she’d spread them for me easily enough, based on last night’s enthusiasm.”

Duncan laughed easily, his dark eyes warm with amusement.

“I’m no longer a young man who shirks his duty. And my little mage is free to take her pleasure where she wishes,” he replied, lightly. “But she’ll end the day in my tent.”

\--------------------

During Flora’s four years in Kinloch Hold, she had possessed a great deal of free time. There was not a huge amount to do in a Circle when one was both magically limited and almost entirely illiterate. Flora had spent much of this free time assisting the Tranquil with their chores, whenever she was permitted to do so. She had rather enjoyed washing dusty flagstones, polishing suits of archaic mage-armour and putting discarded tomes back onto bookshelves. She had been ignominiously banned from this final task after the librarian discovered that – since she was unable to read the titles – Flora had been organising them by colour.

Since Duncan had plucked her from the tower and she had become a Warden, Flora had possessed little in the way of free time. This suited her very much – she liked to keep herself occupied – and a shield-mage who could neutralise the taint with her breath was much in demand at Ostagar. There was always an expedition to accompany, a patrol to undertake, or an infected patient to heal.

Now that Duncan had banned her from all work-related duties for the day, Flora was uncertain what to do with the long hours that stretched out before sunset. She wandered out of the main command tent, yawning and blinking at the contrast from the dim tent to the morning light.

There came a familiar loud bray from nearby – Cailan, returning with a gaggle of noble companions – and Flora, rather irrationally, felt her heart seize in her chest. She scuttled off across the uneven flagstones in the opposite direction, not wanting to be sequestered into some vainglorious hunt for Darkspawn in the valley below.

The young mender rounded a broken pillar, scampered down a flight of six steps and emerged onto a lower terrace, panting and slightly self-conscious. This courtyard was the dominion of the Chantry – the tents were emblazoned with the Chantry symbol, and Templars bristled everywhere like thorns on a Korcari hedgerow.

This was not the most comfortable location for a magic-user to spend time in – already, Flora was receiving glares of suspicion and outright dislike from the camp’s occupants. Although she did not have her staff with her, everybody knew that the pretty redhead in the Warden tabard was Duncan’s inexperienced new mage, fresh from a Circle.

Seeing two stern-faced Templar bearing down on her, Flora rapidly reversed. She clambered back up the steps, then – feeling rather childish – hid behind a wide granite column to avoid Cailan and his noble retinue.

For the next two hours, the young mage wandered aimlessly about the ancient Tevinter fortress. She went to the mess tent and had a more substantial breakfast of barley and oats, perched at the end of a long wooden table while trying to ignore the suspicious stares from the other soldiers. After she had nursed the bowl for far longer than was necessary, she headed off to the infirmary to see if there was anyone that she could assist. The healers – with their ubiquitous Templar guardians standing a silent watch – informed her that they were more than capable of dealing with the current influx of patients.

Flora returned to the low, crumbling courtyard assigned to the Wardens, hoping to find Alistair lurking somewhere nearby. She had not seen him since the previous day; a small part of her worried that he was too shy to face her after their furtive fumblings in the dark. There was a list of assignations and duties pinned on a wooden notice-board near the campfire, but Flora could make neither head nor tail of the unintelligible letters.

Yawning, she made her way into the dormitory tent, which was dimly lit and smelled faintly of mildew. The rows of bunks and bedrolls were empty; the simple possessions of their owners kept in leather packs that doubled as pillows. Disappointed that Alistair was not lurking within the shadowed recesses of the tent – his tall, tawny, broad-shouldered frame was too conspicuous to blend in, anyway – Flora decided to have a quick nap. Last night’s exertions had been prolonged and exceptionally vigorous; she had suckled Duncan with the greed of a parched man at a water fountain, bounced rapidly on Loghain’s veined cock to enjoy as many strokes as possible before they were interrupted; then spread her legs once more for her commander as he took each of her eager holes in turn.

Flora settled down on her own bedroll, feeling a twinge of sadness when she remembered that she did not need to tuck her staff beneath the mattress.

 _I wonder if it even survived the fall to the forest floor?_  she thought gloomily to herself, rolling over onto her side and tugging the blankets above her head.  _Probably not._

Flora dozed on and off for several hours; the nervous adrenaline from the ogre’s attack draining from the channels of her body and leaving her weary. Dimly, through the Veil, she heard the sounds of other Wardens fetching their belongings from their own camp-beds and bunks, yet the bedroll beside her own – which belonged to Alistair – remained untouched. Her spirits let her rest undisturbed in the Fade, reasoning between themselves that their young healer had exerted herself sufficiently for one day.

\-----------------------------

When Flora finally awoke, yawning against the mildewed bedroll, she had no idea what time of day it was. Disorientated, she sat up and squinted around the cavernous space of the dormitory tent. To her alarm, the shadows were beginning to pool beneath the bunks; outside, she could hear the gnawing of flame chewing through wood.

 _They’re lighting the braziers,_ she thought to herself in horror.  _Is it sunset? Did I sleep all day?!_

**_Yes._ **

_Oh no!_

Ashamed of herself, Flora scrambled upright; feeling a twinge of sadness after reaching for her staff and finding it absent. Smoothing down the wrinkles in her tunic, she retrieved her boots and headed towards the entrance of the tent.

To her dismay, it was indeed sunset – the sky was streaked with various shades of copper, citrine and blush. The sun had left a flaming trail in its wake as it nestled behind the distant Frostbacks; it was undoubtedly a beautiful sight, but Flora was too preoccupied with the lateness of the hour to appreciate its loveliness.

Inwardly berating her own idleness, Flora immediately set off to find a way that she could make herself useful. Instead of queuing for dinner at the mess tent, she satisfied herself with several bites of a bread roll; then headed off to the quarter-master to see if there were any tasks or errands that she could fulfil.

 _I can still make myself useful,_ she reasoned.  _Even if I’m not allowed to do any Warden-duties._

The quarter-master was making stock-records and had no use for someone who could not read or count beyond the number of their fingers. They sent her in the direction of the camp steward, who had earlier been overheard complaining about the laziness of his assistants.

Ten minutes later, Flora emerged from the camp steward’s quarters with a blazing torch, a net bag filled with kindling, and a charge of lighting the braziers on the western ramparts. At first, the steward had not wanted to give Flora the equipment –  _after all, she was a mage! what use did she have for kindling?!_  Eventually he had relented, after Flora had managed to convince him of the limited nature of her talents.

With supplies in hand Flora made her way up to the western ramparts; a high and crumbling length of battlements with an impressive view over the forested valley below. These ramparts were too derelict and precarious for siege weaponry, instead, they were used only for the purposes of surveillance - and they gazed towards the Hinterlands rather than the Wilds, the scouts did not view them as a priority. The crumbling battlements were thus routinely left out of regular patrol; a high and lonely ledge of stone tucked away in a corner of the ancient fortress.

There were three squat iron braziers placed at intervals along these neglected ramparts; stocked yesterday with a belly full of wood. After a night and day exposed to the elements, the fuel was damp – but Flora was a child of the north coast, where it had been perpetually damp and miserable. She managed to coax forth a fire from the first and second braziers with relative ease. The third proved a little more tricky – the kindling bag was soggy, like much else at Ostagar, and had soaked the slender twigs thoroughly.

Flora squatted beside the rusting brazier and poked at the clump of soggy wood with a smouldering twig. Nothing happened, and she let out a small grumble of discontent.

“Flo?”

Startled, she dropped the smoking twig and looked up. Boots, strong thighs, broad and powerful shoulders that struggled to fit within the mail encasing them – and then the familiar, anxious face of her fellow recruit peering down at her. Alistair’s handsome, gilded features blazed like a heated brand against the twilight; youthful and earnest like the hero of a bedtime story.

Yet Flora’s attention did not linger on her friend’s sculpted jaw or honey-mead gaze, but instead dropped to the object he held – somewhat tentatively – in his hands. It was a length of wood, without decoration or ornament, plain and yet the most wonderful thing that Flora had seen that day.

“My staff,” she breathed, her eyes widening in incredulous disbelief. “Is… is it? My staff?”

Alistair nodded, offering to her like an awkward Satinalia gift.

“Take it. I’ve been getting all sorts of odd looks from Templars carrying this up through the fortress!”

Flora scrambled to her feet, receiving the staff in both hands and hugging it impulsively to her breast. She felt herself almost tearful at the reunion, her heart racing wildly within the confines of her ribs. There were a few new scratches along its wooden length; but it had been battered and bruised even before its three-hundred foot plummet.

“How… how did you find it?” she asked, a distinct tremor undermining the stability of her words. “It fell. It fell  _so far!_  Into the forest! Into the  _trees!"_

Alistair gave a self-depreciating shrug, one shoulder rising and falling.

“Took bloody ages,” he admitted, cheerfully. “That’s where I’ve been all afternoon. Rummaging around the bushes like a rabbit. Thought I’d come across the Darkspawn any minute – luckily, all I ran into was a terrified deer. It probably thought I was Cailan on the hunt again.”

Flora took a deep gulp of damp evening air, then leaned her staff reverently against the crumbling ramparts. The next moment, she lunged forwards and threw her arms around his waist; impulsive and eager. Alistair, who had not received a hug for as long as he could remember, gaped down at the top of his friend’s dark red head for several moments, struck into momentary paralysis. Eventually, his arms moved around to embrace her back – tentatively at first, and then when it became clear that she was not going to pull away, more tightly. He inhaled the woodsmoke scent of her hair, surreptitious as if he were doing something illicit.

 _She feels warm, and surprisingly sturdy for such a slender girl,_  the junior warden thought to himself.  _She… she feels good_.

In slow increments, Alistair realised that he could feel more of his fellow recruit’s body than just its warmth. Her high little breasts pressed against his chest; one of his broad thighs inadvertently nudged between her legs. Driven by male urges far more deep-rooted than his outward hesitancy – Alistair’s thigh edged forwards; guided by feminine instinct, Flora parted her legs to let it nestle against the clothed warmth at the top of her legs. The young mage barely realised that her body was making such a blatant invitation; she was still speechless delight at the retrieval of her staff.

To his horror, Alistair realised that his cock had sprung unashamedly to life.  
He experienced spontaneous erections around his full-lipped, dreamy-eyed friend even in the most mundane circumstances- with a full, sulky mouth like hers, even the act of licking clean a spoon at dinner became inadvertently sensual. Now that they were wound together as tight as any lover’s embrace, there was no chance that his cock would remain dormant.

Alistair almost wanted to pull away before Flora could feel the traitorous muscle throb against her stomach; yet the hug felt so strange and wonderful that he did not want to. He could tell the exact moment that she noticed it – she startled visibly, her head drawing back and her eyes widening. It was too late for Alistair to try and hide it – or rectify the situation – and so he resigned himself to the embarrassing truth that he could even receive a hug from a friend without his body betraying him.

However, Flora’s body was in the process of betraying her. As her eyes took in the long, broad bulge of Alistair’s shaft – just over ten inches of thick meat confined by the roughspun fabric – she felt her heart skip a beat with excitement. A needy pulse had sprung between her legs, and she could feel her nipples spring to attention beneath her tunic.

To Alistair’s dismay, he felt his friend pull away from him; a strange hollowness left in the wake of her arms. Disappointment then quickly turned to disbelief as she lowered herself deliberately to her knees before him.

Pert, creamy breasts were revealed with a few tugged buttons; the nipples ripe and pink as raspberries. A full, sulky mouth was moistened with the tip of a tongue, her lips were parted slightly in anticipation. Flora peered up at her fellow recruit from beneath her eyelashes; a hopeful, naked invitation in her gaze.

_Please?_


	36. Pleasing Alistair

Alistair's hand dropped to the drawstring of his breeches and gave an urgent tug, fingers trembling and clumsy with anticipation. Unfortunately, he had pulled at the wrong string and only  _tightened_ the knot further. The young Warden – beads of sweat forming on his forehead – let out a muffled curse under his breath; cock now throbbing painfully within the restricting cling of the fabric.

A small, despairing sound of frustration escaped Alistair's throat, as Flora gazed wide-eyed at his fumbling fingers.

 _Of course it had to happen to me,_ he thought wildly to himself.  _A girl kneels down before me for the first time and I can't get my cock out of my trousers._

If he'd had a blade available, he would have  _cut_ the material free. Just as Alistair swivelled his gaze desperately around for something sharp, he felt Flora's fingers brush aside his own.

"Let me," whispered the girl from the northern coast, who had untangled miles of fishing line over the years. "I can unknot it."

Alistair watched as Flora began to work the tangled skeins between her fingers; her lips parted slightly in concentration. His gaze dropped inexorably lower, drinking in the sight of the pert little breasts that she had bared for him minutes earlier. The nearby brazier cast a shifting, flickering warmth over the creamy skin; ripe, pink nipples stood out stiff after exposure to the evening chill.

"You've got such… such pretty breasts, Flo," he said, feeling heat rush to his cheeks at the clumsiness of his comment.

She peered up at him from beneath her eyelashes, then smiled; shy and pleased at his compliment. Her fingers had almost finished working the knot in his breeches free, she could feel the frantic pulse of needful flesh throbbing beneath the fabric.

"You like them?"

"I – I  _love_ them," he replied, throaty and immediate. "They're beautiful."

At that moment, the laces came loose and the breeches slid obligingly down. His cock sprung free in a proud tower of flesh, a deeper shade of olive than the bulky muscle of Alistair's thighs. It was a shaft built for powerful thrusts and deep penetration; a man's cock jutting out from a nest of soft, golden curls.

Flora stared with eyes as round as silver coins; fascinated by the tautness of the skin and the firmness of the sac. Her gaze was drawn to Alistair's swollen cockhead, juicy and full as a plum.

"But  _this_ is beautiful, too," she whispered, propping up the heavy shaft with her fingertips to survey it from all angles. "Mm."

As Alistair watched, barely able to breathe, his fellow recruit pressed her lips to the shiny bulb, soft and almost reverent. A choked gasp then escaped his thrust as Flora deepened the kiss, her mouth parting around his cockhead to let her tongue lap gently around its plump contour.

"F- Flo- " he croaked, suddenly grateful for the wall's stabilising presence at his back – even if the stone did feel rough against his bare buttocks. "Maker's Breath- "

Flora let out a sigh of pleasure around the throbbing bulb of flesh; her fingers gently gripping the shaft at the root to keep it close to her greedy mouth. She had wanted to taste her brother-warden's cock for days; now that it was within reach, she was determined not to let go. As he inhaled a ragged gulp of air above her, she began to kiss her way lovingly down the underside of his cock; holding it up against his stomach with delicate fingers.

Alistair let out another strangled moan as the mouth that he had fantasised about for weeks worked its way along his length. Her lips pressed hot, sweet little kisses into the swollen flesh, her tongue lapping in delicate whorls. Both of his hands were clamped to the ramparts at his sides, bracing himself as best as he could manage against the weakening of his knees. The increasingly faint voice of reason whispered that they were on an exposed rampart; a walkway that was by no means private; that anybody could stumble across the junior warden getting his cock sucked by his pretty bare-breasted sister-in-arms, their illicit liaison illuminated by firelight.

However, the voice of reason was quickly drowned out by the low, ragged groans now breaking free from the junior warden's throat. One of his heavy balls was nestled in his sister-warden's warm and wet, surprisingly spacious mouth. She suckled contentedly on the swollen sac as her slender fingers caressed his fleshy length; letting it rest against her cheek.

Every lap of her tongue drove Alistair closer to a precipice that he had already forced himself back from several times. He had almost spilt his seed when she bared her breasts to him, then again when she had dropped to her knees and licked her lips; and again when she had pressed the first of many tender kisses against his trembling shaft.

Unfortunately, the next moment Flora discovered that clear, liquidous arousal was leaking in a constant stream from her fellow Warden's cockhead. With a squeak of genuine delight, she wrapped her lips around the end of Alistair's swollen cock and began to suckle greedily.

Alistair could hear himself panting – short, animalistic grunts – buttocks clenched with the effort of suppressing his climax. There was a pressure in the root of his shaft that was increasingly difficult to ignore; soon, the young man's seed would defy his attempts to restrain it.

Without fully thinking, he reached forward and rested his palm atop Flora's dark red head; spreading his fingers out through her thick abundance of hair. Gently but firmly, he guided a half-dozen thick inches further into her mouth; hazel irises darkening with lust and pleasure as he felt her eagerly accept more of his length.

" _Suck me,_ " Alistair ordered, amazed at how easily the command came.

When Flora obeyed without question, head bobbing eagerly back and forth on his cock, the junior warden felt as powerful as the Warden-Commander himself.

Meanwhile, the two young recruits had indeed been noticed on the high ramparts – as Alistair had predicted, a pair of soldiers on patrol had spotted them midway through their rounds. The two Warden recruits had not thought to move into the growing shadow of evening – instead, their amorous activities were illuminated by the light of the nearby brazier. Instead of interrupting the couple's intimacy, the two soldiers decided to watch; snickering quietly and placing bets on how much longer the young man would last.

Unfortunately, they themselves were interrupted in their voyeuristic activity by their own commander, who had been especially diligent that day in checking that his troops were undertaking their duties thoroughly. Loghain had spent an increasingly irritating hour stalking around the camp, his boots muddied and his temper bridling; berating his troops for grubby uniforms, yawning on duty, and other minor indiscretions.

Now, to the general's annoyance, he had just stumbled across two of his soldiers hiding in the shadows instead of undertaking their designated patrol of the high ramparts.

"The fuck?"

The junior soldier – who had been staring at the red-headed mage's pert breasts – startled in alarm. The elder, immersed in a fantasy where  _he_ was enjoying the taste of the young Warden's thick length, regained his composure quickest.

"General Mac Tir!"

"Give me one reason why my boot shouldn't already be halfway up your arse," Loghain snarled, his eyes smouldering pinpricks of anger. "Come on."

"The r- ramparts are occupied, ser," the soldier replied, a faint quaver in his tone. "Two Grey Warden recruits are rutting up there. Or,  _about_  to rut."

Loghain's gaze slid past his recalcitrant soldiers, along to where the battlements were illuminated in patches of flickering firelight. For a split second, his heart seemed to freeze rigid in his chest – the incarnation of Maric Theirin himself appeared to be nearing orgasm atop the ramparts.

_How many times did I catch you with some lover, my friend? We were never discreet as young men, after all. You saw me and Rowan in the forest spring together, and teased us both for days. I caught the unsuitable elven lass on her knees before you in the Deep Roads._

A moment later, Loghain realised that it was  _not_ Maric Theirin being pleasured by firelight, but instead his lookalike son; yet the two men were eerily similar in how they  _took_  their pleasure. Alistair's head was thrown back, his eyes closed and an expression of sheer, undiluted bliss writ across his handsome face. One hand rested atop the stone battlements to steady himself, the other was gently guiding the movement of his sister-warden's head. The supple ovals of his exposed buttocks tensed and relaxed in a lazy rhythm as he rocked himself inside Flora's welcoming mouth. The broad, tawny length of his cock looked deliciously obscene as it sunk deep between her eager lips.

"Fuck off," Loghain muttered to his soldiers, who stumbled off with the awkward gait of stiff breeches. With his troops dismissed, the general was free to sidle closer on the ramparts; keeping to the shadows to disguise his presence.

The closer he advanced, the more distinct the sounds coming from the young pair of lovers. Low, primitive moans escaped the throat of Maric's son; his breathing was a strangled pant of pleasure.

"Flo – don't stop-  _please-_ "

Flora had no intention of stopping. Alistair's cock filled her throat so nicely, nestling thick and warm within her lips; pulsing with youthful vigour. Wanting the experience to last for as long as possible, she had deliberately slowed her suckling when she felt the root of his cock shudder. She had now been on her knees before him for almost an hour, kissing, licking and fondling delicately with her fingertips. Only self-discipline and the endurance of the taint had stopped Alistair from spurting his seed on a half-dozen occasions.

As Loghain watched, Maric's son withdrew his cock, murmuring something to his kneeling partner. Flora immediately pressed together her small breasts; her eyes widening as Alistair angled his slick cock clumsily between them. As his hips began to rock back and forth, she ducked her head to press fleeting kisses on the swollen cockhead that thrust up between her ripe mounds.

Both young Wardens seemed fascinated by the sight of the thick, bronzed cock pumping between the creamy little breasts; there was something deliciously lewd about her pink tongue darting out hungrily to lap at the leaking tip.

Alistair let out a man's long, low groan as his buttocks clenched tight in a thrill of pleasure. Suddenly, he knew that he could not hold back the spurt of seed any longer; that his cock was on the verge of releasing the hour's build up. With lust-clumsy fingers, he pulled his throbbing length from between her breasts and pushed it back between her lips. One hand kept his sister-warden's head firmly in place as he fucked her mouth with quick, driving thrusts of his hips. Taken by surprise by the intensity, Flora scrambled to anchor herself to his half-sunk breeches; fingers grasping the folds of leather.

He barely had time to let out a strangled gasp of warning before his cock spasmed; the dam of his restraint breaking with sudden, tremendous force. Flora almost fell backwards in shock, but just about managed to keep her balance – and her composure. She took each potent spurt of her brother-warden's seed down her throat, swallowing each one as Duncan had lovingly taught her.

Drained both physically and emotionally, Alistair sagged back against the reapers with a groan, shoulders heaving erratically as he gulped down mouthfuls of damp autumnal air. His vision had blurred with the intensity of his climax, and it took several hard blinks to regain some sort of focus. Once his gaze had cleared, he dropped his head to stare down at his kneeling companion.

Flora smiled shyly up at him, inordinately pleased with herself. Her rain-grey eyes reflected the nearby shifting flames, loaning some warmth to her pale, high-boned cheeks.

"Was… was that alright?" she whispered tentatively into the evening dusk, anxious and hopeful.

Instead of replying, Alistair reached down with a clumsy hand, his palm resting atop Flora's dark crimson head. His fingers spread greedily through the thick, rich mass of hair before sliding down the carved contour of her cheek; a clumsy, affectionate caress. A callused thumb traced the delicate line of her jaw, lingering for a moment on her throat.

"From the moment I first set eyes on you, Flo," he said, so quiet that she had to strain to hear him. "I thought that you were the most beautiful girl that I'd ever seen."

Flora peered up at him with her characteristic graveness; her solemn, lovely face contemplative. Then she smiled once again, her cheeks blossoming with pleasure at the compliment, while simultaneously dropping her eyes to the flagstones.

Alistair cleared his throat, at once embarrassed by and defiantly proud of such sentiment. His fingers left her face and reached down instead, extending it towards her in an offer of assistance.

"Thank you," she whispered, accepting the hand and clambering gracelessly to her feet. "Thank you for finding my staff. And thank you for letting me…"

Flora made a gesture, and Alistair let out a cough; raising a hand self-consciously to the back of his head.

"You're welcome," he muttered, swivelling his gaze sideways to the smouldering brazier. "It was… it was my pleasure. Thank  _you."_

She smiled at him from beneath her eyelashes, making no effort to cover her breasts up. There was open invitation in her gaze; a tacit understanding that if he wanted to try anything further, she would welcome it.

 _I wager Duncan doesn't say 'thank you' after she pleasures him,_ Alistair thought to himself, suddenly.  _He'd have her bent over the ramparts by now. How can I possibly compete with someone who has so much experience? I bet he'd have – somehow - made her come twice already._

_What kind of lover could I prove, next to him?_

The young Warden shifted from foot to foot, suddenly overcome with shyness and self-doubt. Flora wondered if her unbuttoned shirt was proving a distraction, and so she hastily fastened the linen back up over her breasts.

"Do you want to get some food?" she asked him, her pale eyes searching his handsome, harried face. "I think they've made chicken stew. I don't know where they've found chickens around here. I don't think they're native to the Korcari Wilds."

"It's probably  _frog_ stew," muttered Alistair, inwardly cursing this sudden surge of insecurity. "Apparently, they taste the same."

Flora's brow creased – she could see the anxiety writ across her brother-warden's features, and instinctually wanted to assuage it. Even as she reached out a hand towards him, Alistair made a mumbled excuse; stepping backwards with redness flaring in both cheeks.

"I- I'll see you later, Flo. Sorry- thank you again!"

With surprising fleetness for a man of such lengthy limb, Alistair fled into the darkness; furious at his own hesitancy.

Flora watched him go in slight bemusement, shivering as a chilly autumnal breeze whipped her hair around her face. Pulling a strand from where it had plastered itself against her mouth, she crouched down to gather up the discarded fire-making equipment. Night had drawn in swiftly, as it tended to do down south, and the ancient fortress of Ostagar was now veiled in a cloak of shadow.

The firesteel slipped from Flora's fingers as she peered up at the mist-shrouded moon; she squatted awkwardly and stretched out a hand beneath the brazier to retrieve it. The breeze shifted as she did so, blowing smoke directly into the young recruit's face. She spluttered, wiping at her streaming eyes with a sleeve; then almost had a heart attack as an acerbic voice drifted out of the shadows above her head.

"I've never seen a mage using a firesteel before."

Flora sat back on her heels and peered up at the figure that loomed above her, stern and forbidding as the Tower of Ishal beyond. The royal general, face set in its usual scowl, stared back down at her.

"I can't conjure fire," she replied, tucking the firesteel into her pocket and scrambling to her feet.

The commander said nothing, his dark eyes sweeping Flora up and down without comment. Her hair was disheveled in a way that suggested it had been gripped in a man's hand; the buttons of her shirt were fastened lopsided to give tantalising glimpses of the peachy flesh beneath. Most tellingly of her, the knees of her breeches were grubby and soaked through – testament to their lengthy contact with the flagstones.

 _The lusty creature has suckled the bastard's cock dry, and got nothing in return,_ the general thought to himself.  _That sweet cunt of hers must be desperate for release._

"Cailan has requested you," Loghain snapped, the lie coming easily. "Come with me."

Flora blinked in bemusement, wondering what the king could possibly want at this late hour. Retrieving her staff, she attempted to sling it over her shoulder and then realised that the leather strap had not survived the plummet from the bridge intact. Clutching the length of wood tightly instead, she made to follow in Loghain's footsteps.

The general had not waited for her, striding off into the mass of shadow brewing at the far end of the ramparts. Flora dutifully followed him, lifting her hand to conjure a soft, buttery glow from beneath her fingertips. This cast faint illumination on the uneven flagstones, and allowed her to avoid the more obviously broken tiles.

The general descended a flight of crumbling steps into a tent-filled courtyard, snapping a comment to a pair of yawning soldiers posted nearby. Even delivering the reprimand did not slow Loghain's relentless stride; the soldiers sprung hastily to attention in his wake. Flora trailed several paces behind, clutching her staff and brooding.

They passed though the courtyard that housed the garrisons, then descended another short flight of crumbling steps. Within minutes, they had arrived on the terrace of the royal party, where Cailan and his nobles made their camp. A bonfire was burning somewhere in the darkness between the tents; from which loud voices, clinking glasses and general sounds of merriment arose.

Loghain, who had not uttered a word since they had descended from the ramparts, suddenly cleared his throat and spoke up.

"You're not afraid of me," he stated; in a declaration of fact that held no query within it.

"No," replied Flora, honest and bemused. "Why?"

The general ignored the question, casting an irritated glance towards the boisterous conversation rising from the campfire.

"My son-in-law is a fucking idiot," he muttered, more to himself than to Flora.

Flora looked vaguely worried that she was being delivered into the company of said  _fucking idiot._ Loghain glanced down at her, caught the anxiety on her face, and let out a humourless snort.

"Don't fret," he said, abruptly. "You're not going to Cailan."

"Oh!"

Flora now appeared mildly confused, her high, pale brow creasing itself in two. Sure enough, before they came anywhere near the flickering aura given off by the king's campfire, Loghain had turned abruptly. Instead, he headed towards a tent set slightly apart from the others – plain and utilitarian, a soldier's tent; indistinguishable from the dwellings of the rank and file save for the size, and the black and gold banner at its entrance.

Loghain glanced swiftly from side to side – the royal terrace was bathed in twilight and they were unlikely to be spotted and then strode towards his tent.

"The king doesn't want me," Flora repeated, equally relieved and confused. "Why did you say he did?"

"I lied," replied the general, no hint of remorse on his lined, hawkish features as he tugged at the laces to his tent. "This way."

He gestured her inside the shadowed space, and Flora suddenly understood why he had wanted to establish if she was afraid of him.

 _He knows that I'm not afraid of him,_ she realised, even as she gazed around the interior of the plain, sparsely furnished tent.  _So I would readily leave. If I wanted to._

The space contained little more than a campbed, a desk overflowing with paperwork, and an armour stand containing a set of functional and undecorated armour. A sword leaned against the desk, again, plain and without ornamentation. Loghain Mac Tir was a first generation teyrn; there were no Mac Tir family heirlooms of any substance or note for him to display as the other nobles did. Predictably, Loghain Mac Tir could not have cared less. The space was lit by several candles scattered haphazardly; their wax cheap and the flames guttering.

Flora came to a halt in the centre of the tent, gazing curiously at the letters and parchment spilling over from the desk. Loghain let the canvas flap of the entrance drop closed, before removing his gloves in swift, functional motions.

"No memorising my private correspondence and reporting it back to your commander," he told her, snidely. "I didn't bring you here to spy on me."

"I can't read," replied Flora, familiar with this manner of blunt northern dialogue. "Why did you bring me here?"

"Because we have unfinished business, lass."


	37. The General and the Mage

The general's words hung in the air, potent and full of meaning. Flora felt a slow blush begin to burn in her cheeks; she knew  _exactly_  what Loghain was referring to.

_I sat on your knee last night and let you work your cock inside me. You was so thick that it took us a while to find a comfortable angle. We had just got into a rhythm when Duncan lifted me off you, and onto him._

_The few thrusts we did manage felt so good though._

Loghain strode across to the overflowing desk and lifted a candle, touching the guttering flame to the lamps that had died during his absence. Flora watched his movements – swift, abrupt and without pretension – and wondered if he was the same way in the bedchamber.

"Come here," he instructed, disturbing her curious musings. "I want to see you."

The general gestured to a spot in the centre of the tent; where the light from several candles converged to create a warm amber pool. Flora dutifully stepped into the illuminated patch, her pale eyes alight with curiosity.

Loghain had finished removing his gloves, his eyes roaming freely over Flora's body as though she were some military objective he wished to capture. His eyes moved from her pale throat, to the defiant little thrusts of her breasts against her shirt, down to the leather clinging to her pert buttocks. His face remained set in a frown; the only clue to his arousal was the slight shifting of weight from one foot to another, a sure sign that a cock was rapidly stiffening within the breeches.

Without wasting further time, the general reached out and began to unfasten her shirt; fingers working deftly at each button. Inch by inch, Flora's small, creamy breasts were revealed, the nipples as pink, plump and juicy as raspberries. Loghain inhaled a fraction more unsteadily, unconsciously running the tip of his tongue over his lips. Still, he managed to retain some composure; nodding impatiently for her to shrug the shirt from her shoulders. When Flora did so, standing shy and topless before him, he let his hand to drift downwards to rub impatiently over his leather covered length.

He managed not to touch her yet, his fingers reaching down to unbutton her breeches. Once they were unfastened, he slid deft fingers within the waistband to grip her smalls in addition to the leather trousers. One impatient tug and they were around Flora's knees; after a grunt of instruction, she dutifully lifted one foot and then the other, letting him work them free. In an unexpected, strangely courteous gesture, Loghain gripped her small fingers in his to steady her as she pulled off each boot.

Then Flora was naked before the general; candlelight playing over the soft, creamy ripeness of her body. Her breasts were each a delicious mouthful; her skin smooth and unblemished; soft, dark red curls not quite hiding the plump folds nestled between her thighs. She looked up at the general, full lips slightly parted with anticipation.

"Loose your hair," Loghain said thickly, his pupils blown wide open with desire. "Don't let it cover those pretty little tits."

Flora responded well to northern bluntness; the general's crudeness and economy of speech was familiar to her. She freed the leather tie from her hair and pushed the unruly mass of crimson behind her ears.

Loghain spent the next few minutes surveying his prize, circling her with a military focus. Flora could feel his stare blistering her skin with its intensity; and there was a distinctly ragged edge to his breathing. Every so often he would drop a hand to the clothed bulge of his manhood age and give himself a slow rub, his eyes glued to her body.

The first time he touched her was by placing his fingers on her buttocks, gripping the firm mounds of flesh and tugging them gently apart. Flora found herself blushing as she felt his admiring stare settle on the pinprick nestled within.

"Do you let the Rivaini fuck you here?" he demanded, abruptness and desire mingling in the snapped words. As he spoke, his thumb darted forwards and rubbed over the wrinkled pucker with unusual tenderness. The calloused fingertip was cold from the night air; Flora let out a squeak, eyes widening as she wriggled instinctively.

"Yes," she whispered, twisting her head as far as she could to watch his caress.

"And do you enjoy a cock in your ass, girl?" he continued, a forefinger probing the taut ring of muscle.

She nodded in shy admission, feeling heat flare on her cheeks.

"Mm, lots."

Loghain let out a soft grunt, sliding a deft hand between her thighs and curling his fingers upwards to cup her gently; cradling her whole cunt against his palm. He could feel the heat pulsing from it in waves, the small folds slick to the touch.

"This is an excited little cunt," he muttered, letting his thumb stroke through the downy curls covering her mound. "Wet for me already."

 _Bryce Cousland's daughter,_ the general thought in triumph.  _Dripping on my palm._

Flora inhaled unsteadily as his calloused thumb made a quick, exploratory circle around her clitoris; petting the tiny pearl just long enough to draw forth a whimper of arousal.

"Oh – please- "

Loghain snorted, squeezing gently once again before withdrawing his hand and continuing to circle her; appraising the ripe creaminess of a young woman's body. He lifted a small breast with two fingers, then closed his hand around it; he stroked the tip of her pink nipple and rolled it gently between finger and thumb. He slid his hand over the firm contour of her stomach; admiring the slender curve of her hip. Once again, his grip fixed itself around her buttock; giving it a testing squeeze like a fruit at market. Finally, he used thumb and forefinger to spread her plump folds apart, holding them open to admire the tiny, glistening entrance of her cunt.

"Fucking exquisite," he muttered irritably, rubbing a slick, velvet fold between his fingers.

"You sound annoyed," a dreamy Flora whispered back, watching his calloused fingers explore the soft, wet contours between her legs. The noises rising from her thighs were crude, verging on the obscene; the slick manipulation of swollen flesh unmistakable.

"I'm annoyed with myself," Loghain replied bluntly, fondling her clitoris with a forefinger. "I've wanted to bed you for weeks; to the point where it's a  _Maker-damned distraction."_

Flora, only half-listening and dreamy-eyed with pleasure, managed to croak out an almost coherent response.

"Really," she mumbled, parting her thighs to allow his hand easier access. "Mm, don't stop."

He pushed a finger inside her, marvelling at the heat and tightness that lay within. She let out a half-whimper, her head drooping and strands of hair falling loose over her shoulders; the rich coils of red in stark contrast to the milky skin. Loghain pushed his finger to the second knuckle, evoking another small whine.

"Aye," he replied, letting his finger glide in and out of her velvet folds. "I've tugged my cock to thoughts of you more often than I'd care to admit."

Flora bit her lip, a flush spreading over the delicate protrusion of her collarbone. Still pumping leisurely with a broad, callused forefinger, Loghain let his eyes wander once more over the Cousland girl's nakedness. Despite the shy, solemn beauty of her face, she had a body crafted perfectly for pleasure; high, pert breasts that could be taken in a mouth, shapely legs that almost asked to be spread, slick, demanding folds that were trying to coax his finger in further. Even the ripe buttocks seemed designed to be parted; revealing the hidden source of pleasure within.

"What's a pretty creature like you doing in a shithole like this?" he asked, fucking her gently with his finger.

"Your tent?" she breathed innocently, fascinated by the sight of his callused knuckle protruding from her flushed folds. "You brought me here."

"No," the general retorted, and for a moment he almost looked as though he wanted to laugh. "Ostagar."

Pausing the motion of his hand, Loghain leaned forward, letting his mouth settle gently on her neck. Flora tilted her head to the side, her breath coming in quiet pants as he brushed his lips along her collarbone. Every so often, he would kiss the pale hollow of her throat, or the sensitive spot behind her ear; each one surprisingly gentle.

"Duncan took me from the Circle," Flora whispered, her mind losing clarity with every tender press of the older man's lips.

The leader of Ferelden's army snorted, raising his head from Flora's shoulder.

"Because he wanted a lovely nineteen year old riding his cock every night, I assume."

Flora blushed inadvertently, her imagination captured by such a provocative suggestion.

 _Imagine if we'd had sex the very first night he took me from the Circle,_ she thought to herself, strangely intrigued.  _Next to the campfire, out in the middle of the grass. Maybe with Alistair pretending to be asleep but watching from the corner of his eye._

"No," she replied vaguely, relishing this image of her virile, passionate commander thrusting joyfully between his shy new recruit's thighs; initiating her into an unfamiliar world of pleasure. "Because I'm useful."

_Your magic is something that I've not seen in a long time, qalbi. You speak with your spirits as would a Rivaini tribal elder. It's marvellous._

Loghain had detected the wistful note in her voice and guessed correctly that his young partner was now day-dreaming about her primary lover. With a grunt of irritation, he lifted her up in a strong arm; a warrior's strength clearly still hid beneath the trappings of a general. Flora clung to the northerner's leather-clad shoulder, oddly fascinated by his decision to remain clothed. In the privacy of his tent, Duncan always slept in the nude; often, she would arrive to find him scribing a letter at the desk similarly unclothed, manhood lying thick and lazy against his thigh.

"Aren't you going to take off your clothes?" she whispered in Loghain's ear, fingering the thin braid of hair that hung to his shoulders.

Loghain snorted, taking three brisk paces across the tent with Flora in his arms. He had only a narrow camp bed, plain but neatly made with blankets folded in a pile. Crouching, he placed Flora on the firm mattress and then stood; the careful nonchalance on his face belied by the hawklike intensity of his stare.

"If I took my cock out now, it would be deep in your cunt before you knew it," he replied, bluntly. "And I want this to last."

Flora looked up at him from the bed, biting thoughtfully at the plump swell of her lip. The candlelight illuminated the pretty flush across her breasts, the sheen of wetness on her inner thigh.

"But, can I feel? I like the… the  _lines_  on it."

She was referring to the veins that ran the length of the general's cock. Flora was oddly intrigued by them, since both Alistair and Duncan were smooth and velvet.

Loghain gave a stiff nod in response, unbuttoning the top of his breeches just sufficient to show a wiry, surprisingly dark nest of curls. Flora knelt on the bed, inhaling the familiar scent of male arousal; she could see the outline of the general's swollen cock against his thigh.

The commander of Ferelden's forces felt small fingers slide their way down through the tufts of pubic hair, gentle and exploratory. The next moment, they had found their prize, edging curiously over the swollen rod below. A fingertip traced the vein that ran from root to tip; a thumb danced in a slow caress. As his arousal leaked over her fingers, the soft, wet noise of stroking began to emerge from the half-unbuttoned breeches.

Loghain muttered a quiet profanity, tipping his head back and gritting his teeth. Each breath came hot and ragged; as much as he tried, he could not suppress the guttural pants escaping from his throat.

Then something hot and wet eagerly encased the slick and swollen head of his cock; the distinct flutter of a lapping tongue. The general let out a strangled groan, his head snapping forward to stare downwards. Flora had worked the leaking head and several inches of his cock free from his breeches and had taken them greedily in her mouth. She suckled away at the throbbing flesh, her cheeks flexing with the enthusiasm.

"Oh, fuck- " Loghain croaked, watching her press tender kisses to the head of his cock. "You naughty little –  _mm._ I didn't give you permission to take it in your mouth."

"You didn't have permission to put your finger  _back there_  earlier," she countered, trying to suppress a giggle. "Only Duncan is allowed to have my ass."

"I might put my cockhead in there later," Loghain retorted, with equal spirit. "I doubt you'll be able to resist sitting on it."

Flora smiled languidly up at him, brushing aside a strand of hair from her flushed cheek. The general reached down, and guided the three exposed inches of his veined cock back in the young Warden's mouth.

"Finish the job you started, girl."


	38. The General's Tongue

Flora's cheeks began to pull inwards as she suckled on the general's cockhead, wondering at the subtle differences in taste between him and the other two men she had taken in her mouth that day. While her tongue lapped at the swollen bulb, her fingers came up to tug at the remaining few buttons of Loghain's breeches. On the third pull, the trousers loosened enough to let the full length of the teyrn's cock spring free. It jutted outwards from a mass of wiry, fading curls; a thick, rich column of flesh webbed with pulsing veins.

Flora leaned back on the bed, transfixed by the sight of the general's throbbing shaft. Drops of clear liquid formed in the centre of the maroon head; she reached forward to dabble her finger softly in the small indent. Loghain let out a groan that was half-pleasure and half-frustration; the muscles in his thighs rigid with the effort of restraint.

"Get your mouth back on my cock, lass," he ordered, visibly trying to reclaim some control of the situation. "Suck me nice and slow."

Flora began to trace the veins with her tongue, fascinated with how they pulsed in response to her caresses. She cupped his heavy sac in her palm, admiring its warm, liquid weight.

It had been longer than Loghain would care to admit since he had a woman kneeling in front of him. He had always told himself that it was an  _Orlesian_ practice to administer pleasure with the mouth, that good Fereldan girls got on all fours to let their men mount them straight away; yet Flora's lips felt so warm and welcoming around his cock that he was determined to savour every moment. A low, throaty moan of pleasure broke free at last – he had been trying to keep himself quiet – and he reached down to tangle fingers in Flora's hair. With her head now firmly in hand, the general was able to control the slow, deliberate rock of his cock into her mouth.

"Oh –  _fuck- good girl- "_

Flora dutifully devoured as much of the old soldier as she could manage, her high breasts quivering with each pump of his manhood into her mouth. Loghain's shaft was thick enough to rub at the sides of her mouth; the veins throbbing against her eager lips.

The general let out a hiss through gritted teeth as he felt her flutter delicate kisses over the dripping head; her fingers delicately petting his throbbing sac with little strokes and caresses. As Flora's tongue darted out greedily to catch a bead of clear liquid excitement, Loghain felt the base of his cock clench with excitement. The next moment, she began to kiss the flushed  _glans_  as though greeting a lover, letting out sighs of contentment as she rolled her tongue languidly against his cockhead.

By chance at that moment, Loghain caught sight of Flora's glistening inner thighs. He realised with a start that the act of pleasing him alone was making the young healer drip with excitement; her clitoris a swollen bud of delight. Muttering a strangled profanity, he gripped himself by the root and somehow forced his climax back.

"Ah, shit- "

Flora looked up at the teyrn with wide, slightly accusatory eyes; she had thoroughly enjoyed sucking on the veiny length. In fact, she had planned to spend the next half-candle on her knees before Loghain.

"I know Wardens bed each other like rabbits," the general muttered, referring to the grunts and slaps of wet flesh that routinely echoed from the Order camp at night. "But I'll spill my seed only once this evening, and I've a specific place for it in mind already."

"Where?" whispered Flora, recalling fondly how she and Duncan had rutted five times over the course of the previous night; his taint-fuelled cock required only a few muzzles and kisses before readying itself once again.

Before responding Loghain guided her down onto the campbed with a firm and insistent hand. Ignoring the ache in his sore knee, he knelt before the bed and drew her thighs over his shoulders. Her small feet dangled against his back, toes curling with excitement. He gazed for several moments at the soft, slick pinkness of her exposed folds; illuminated by candlelight, they looked plump and edible.

Leaning forward, he nudged his forefinger against the base of her folds; then pushed in to the second knuckle as she whimpered.

"I'm going to shoot my seed right into this sweet little cunt," he breathed, unable to stop the corner of his mouth from curling upwards. "Deep as I can get it. Like the sound of that, lass?"

Flora nodded, the pinkish flush to her cheeks deepening.

"Mm."

Loghain shifted himself slightly on the rush matting – it had been over two decades since he had knelt between a woman's thighs, and he was no longer a man in his physical prime. Ignoring the throb in the stiff joint, he leaned forward; using thumb and forefinger to spread Flora's velvet lips apart. He could see her visceral excitement; anticipatory heat pulsating outwards from the slick folds.

"I haven't done this for years," Loghain muttered almost to himself as he moistened his thin lips in preparation. "But this - " here, he patted fingers against her wet folds, almost tenderly. "This is a cunt that demands to be eaten."

"Please," she whispered, desperate for the first touch of the northerner's tongue. "I want it."

"You want this soldier's mouth between your legs, lass?"

" _Please!"_

The raw need in her voice made him grin; and wish that Duncan was there to see his young lover beg for the tongue of his oldest rival. He continued to hold her spread apart, admiring the pretty pinkness of the wet flesh and the tiny pearl at the apex of her folds.

"The last woman I did this to went on to become the Queen of Ferelden," he murmured, letting his calloused thumb rub in lazy circles over her clitoris. "But even when Rowan took the throne and bore the crown, I could never forget how she'd once spread her legs open for me. I don't believe she ever forgot, either."

Flora was unversed in Fereldan history, and had no idea of the notoriously passionate affair that Loghain Mac Tir and Rowan Guerrin had embarked on before she had married the golden-haired Theirin. Instead, she was fully focused on the delicious ripples of pleasure that the general was coaxing forth with a surprisingly skilled thumb.

"Mm," she whispered dreamily, turning her cheek against the blankets and fiddling with a strand of hair. "Don't know who that is."

Loghain let out a soft snort, returning his attention to the here and now.

"You're far too young to know what I'm talking about, lass. It must seem like ancient history to you."

While the general spoke, he rolled the swollen nub between finger and thumb; pleased at the whimpers he was eliciting from his new bedmate. Flora was now panting and on the verge of over-stimulation; she was clearly desperate to feel the lap of Loghain's tongue across her aching folds.

Yet the teyrn was a man in his mid-fifties, with a body that had survived many conflicts and bore the resulting damages. He intended to prolong his quality time with the young mage's ripe little cunt as much as possible – after all, Duncan could be capricious and withdraw his tacit permission for their liaison. It quickly became apparent that kneeling on the rush matting was not going to allow him the time he desired with Flora's sweet slit – the old arrow-wound to the thigh had already begun to ache.

With a impatient grunt, Loghain gathered the naked girl up in his arms; turning towards the corner of the tent where his desk and chair stood. Flora wound her arm around his neck as she was carried, in an innocent but oddly touching gesture.

Fortunately, the general's desk was clear of detritus – unlike Duncan, Loghain always made the effort to clear away unused parchment and inkwells. He lowered Flora onto her back – grunting a soft  _good girl_ as she immediately spread her thighs wide, small feet dangling above the ground.

The general reached behind him to pull up a chair, sitting down and leaning forward with a hawkish intensity on his well-worn features. Licking thin lips – which, for once, were not set in a scowl; Loghain methodically strategised how he was going to devour this ripe young cunt.

Flora lay back on the desk with her legs parted, barely cognisant of the hard surface against her shoulder-blades. While Mac Tir contemplated where to apply his tongue first, she mused over the earlier comment about  _only spilling his seed once._

 _If I use my mouth on him,_ she mused idly,  _I bet he'll feel energetic enough to continue._

"Right," the general muttered, having decided that he was going to begin by suckling on each plump, velvety fold in turn. "Keep those thighs spread nice and wide for me, lass."

Flora was barely able to keep still; quivering with anticipation. Just as Loghain was about to lower his head between her legs, there came a rustle of canvas and an awkward cough from the tent entrance.

"G- General?"

For a brief moment, Loghain's face contorted in a spasm of pure rage. He swivelled his head to glare at the trembling young messenger, who was shifting anxiously from foot to door beside the canvas flap.

"The Darkspawn had better be  _literally_  swarming the camp, boy," the general snarled, dark eyes flaring. "Can't you see I'm busy?"

The messenger, who suddenly spotted the naked girl sprawled languidly across Mac Tir's desk, mouthed like a fish plucked from the ocean.

"The – the Chantry Mother has had a quarrel with some of the Circle mages," he breathed, in slightly strangled tones. "She wants you to mediate between them."

Loghain let out a snort of contempt, then canted his head impatiently.

"Come here, lad. Life lesson for you."

The young messenger crossed the tent as though in a trance, his stare transfixed on the desk. The Warden healer rested there like some illustration in a book of Antivan erotic poetry, thighs parted and small breasts tilted upwards; her solemn, beautiful face pink with barely suppressed excitement.

Loghain waited until the youth had come to a halt, his expression one of moderate irritation.

"A – a life lesson?" croaked the messenger, stiff in his breeches.

"Aye," retorted Loghain, reaching forward to stroke a forefinger over Flora's slick folds. "For if you ever grow the balls to get a girl."

She let out a little whimper of encouragement and he began to rub her half-hidden pearl in shameless circles. Crude, wet sounds of arousal drifted from between her thighs; incoherent whines from her throat.

"When she's making noises like  _this,"_ the general continued, pumping his finger several times within Flora's saturated cunt for good measure. "You don't leave her to talk to a bunch of whining old women."

The youth stared with a mixture of envy and lust as Loghain's callused finger – which had not lost the ability to pleasure a woman, despite the years clutching a sword – continued to fondle the mage's pretty, dripping cunt.

"Can I touch her?" he croaked, lust clouding his judgement. 

"You can fuck off," snarled Loghain, irritably. "And tell the guard that if they let anyone else in, they'll  _all_  spend a night in the pillory. I don't care if it's the Chantry Mother herself!"

Flora had to bite on a strand of her own hair to stop herself from laughing. Loghain shot the young Warden-recruit a stern look; bristling eyebrows drawn as he peered between her bent-apart knees.

"Do you think I speak in jest?"

She gave a lazy shrug in response, letting one arm trail off the side of the desk.

"Dunno."

Loghain let out a grunt, pulling up his chair right up to the desk before spreading Flora's knees even wider. He licked his lips, eyes focused with hawkish intensity on his objective; then bent his head.

The first thing that Flora felt was a long, savouring lick; a sensual lap that ran the entire length of her little and finished at her pearl. This was followed by a second lave of the tongue, running back down even further than the honeyed entrance to her cunt. A pointed tongue parted her folds, sliding between them with delicate finesse.

Flora let out a soft, incoherent whimper of pleasure; strangely fascinated by how the general's methods differed from Duncan's. Flora's Rivaini lover tended to leave her thighs resting on his shoulder – easier to suckle lovingly at her toes – and his neatly trimmed beard brushed pleasantly against her thighs. Loghain gripped her thighs with a firmness that was sure to leave the imprints of his fingers; keeping her spread lasciviously apart for his hungry stare. His lips were thinner, but his tongue claimed her cunt with equal vigour. Whereas Duncan would employ all the erotic techniques at his disposal; Loghain devoured her like a starving man. He sucked her into his mouth, nibbled at each tender fold; then abused her throbbing pearl with the tip of his tongue until she sobbed with desire.

"Delicious little cunt," he muttered thickly, admiring the glistening flesh beneath the sweat-dampened curls. "How often does the Rivaini taste you down here, lass? I hope he's paying it due respect."

"A lot," Flora whispered, honestly. "Most nights. Sometimes in the day, too."

Loghain let out a grunt, then returned his mouth between her legs, licking at her with added fervour. The sound emerged like a parched Mabari lapping at a water-bowl; loud and obscenely wet.

Each lave of his tongue between her folds sent electric jolts of pleasure through Flora's body; her core thrummed with arousal like a plucked lute string. She sprawled limp against the desk, fingers curling dreamily; a flush spread across her pert little breasts.

Meanwhile Loghain was rapidly becoming addicted to the sweetness of the girl's ripe young cunt; lapping up as much as he could in each glide. He even sought to milk it from its source, delving his tongue as far as it would go inside the pretty mage's slit. The general did this over and over until the moans emerging from Flora's throat sounded more animal than human.

"Please," she begged, pushing herself desperately towards him.  _"Please."_

Loghain held her between finger and thumb, admiring the swollen, glistening folds. He remembered Duncan's declared intention to shave off the wispy auburn curls later that night. The general licked his lips, knowing that there was no way he would deprive himself of seeing – and petting – Flora's creamy, hairless mound.

_Tomorrow's a busy day, but I'll find a quick moment to feel that soft, plush cunt._

As his thoughts raced, Loghain's tongue traced the outline of his young partner's clitoris, nudging it tenderly. Flora let out a strangled cry of almost painful need. Her hands reached out in a way that Loghain had seen before; when she had first guided his cock stealthily into her cunt.

_You were on my lap, I had just finished stroking you until your whole body quivered._

_Duncan had gone to the far side of the tent to pour himself a drink. I felt your fingers at the buttons of my breeches; tugging them impatiently open._

_First, you whispered that you just wanted to feel my cockhead against your folds. I couldn't resist going further, nudging the tip just inside. You let out the sweetest gasp of surprise, and then reached down to guide me in deeper._

_I just want to see what it feels like, came the whisper. Just for a minute._

_Lusty little creature she is, she was bouncing joyfully on it seconds later; letting out squeaks of delight._

"Enough of this," the general said, a rasp of pleasure accompanying the word. "I need to fuck you now."


	39. No Holding Back

Flora opened her mouth but before she could even speak, the general had sat heavily back in the chair, gripping her thighs to pull her onto his lap. There was a look of hawkish intensity writ across his weathered features as he reached down to grip his cock; oblivious to all except the need to sheathe himself inside the tight little cunt he had only sampled the previous night. Flora was no help in this matter, she ground herself urgently against him with blind desperation.

Finally, after his leaking cock had slid everywhere but where Loghain wished it to go; the general let out a growl of frustration in his young lover's ear.

"Keep still, lass. Or my cock will be up your precious little ass, and I thought that was reserved for Duncan."

Flora let out a half-gasp, half-giggle, but did as she was told. Now that she was reasonably calm, Loghain was able to push his cockhead in at the correct angle, letting the thick, veined shaft sink in one inch at a time. Once it had been sheathed to the root, both the general and the mage let out a sigh of relief. Their faces were inches apart; flushed and suffused with desire. Strands of crimson hair were plastered to her cheeks, the sweat glistened in the hollow of her throat.

Up to this moment, there had been a tacit understanding between the two northerners that there was no need for them to kiss. They were simply satisfying a mutual urge; giving in to the animal sexual chemistry between them.

Now, their mouths brushed together with an exploratory lightness, brief, fluttering, passes of lips. His cock stood erect and motionless in her cunt, she made no effort to move upon it. Finally, their mouths pressed together in soft, tender contact; a slow, lingering and unmistakable kiss. He groaned softly and she echoed the sound, a whimper of pleasure escaping her throat.

Eventually, Flora decided to return to safer territory; tilting her head back to expose the lovely, pale line of her neck. Without missing a beat, Loghain dropped his lips to the delicate contour of her throat, sucking tenderly at the flesh. His heart was still racing at the tenderness of the kiss they had just shared, irritably he told himself not to be so sentimental.

Flora drew back, pushing her mass of hair over her shoulders and looking down to where their bodies were joined. Just beneath the soft wisps of auburn, her small folds were stretched around the thick root of his shaft; sunk as deep as it would go. She reached down to stroke a finger through his fading curls, then put a hand on his shoulder to brace herself.

Loghain, meanwhile, was still in slight disbelief that such a lovely young creature was astride him. Everything on the mage's slender body seemed to tilt upwards as though being offered to him – her pert, creamy breasts, her sweet, flushing face, her high buttocks.

As he watched, she began to move her hips – tentatively, at first – rocking herself on the thick male shaft wedged within her. There was a look of concentration on Flora's face, and she was biting her lip as she focused on finding the correct rhythm. Loghain was oddly touched by her hesitancy, recalling Duncan's comment that she had been a virgin up until only a fortnight prior.

"Am I doing it right?" she whispered, as though echoing Loghain's thoughts. "Does it feel good?"

"It feels fucking exquisite," he growled in her ear, reaching down to cup her ripe buttocks in his palms. "Don't you dare stop."

Flora beamed, the reassurance prompting her to increase the vigour of her movements. She began to rock her hips back and forth in a lazy, deep roll; her buttocks lifting enough to let several inches slip out of her before she joyfully took them back in. Unable to resist, Loghain leaned forward and caught one of the dusky pink nipples between his lips, satisfaction surging as he teased the stiff flesh with his tongue.

_I might not have the body of a young and virile warrior, but this little beauty is genuinely aroused. She's always responded well to my caresses; I've never put my fingers between her legs and felt a dry cunt. I'd wager she's been dripping with anticipation from the moment I ushered her into my tent._

He lifted his mouth from her nipple, looking up to see Flora craning her neck as far as she could manage. She was peering over her own shoulder, fascinated by the rhythmic cadence of her buttocks as they rocked languidly on Loghain's slick and pulsing shaft. His sac slapped against her in regular, wet intervals; heavy and full with contents.

"Oh, your cock feels lovely," she whispered shyly, in awe at the sight of it stretching her swollen folds. "I'm so glad you asked me to your tent."

Loghain reached out, and gently but firmly turned her chin towards him.

The two northerners stared hungrily at one another, their flushed faces inches apart, panting and wordless. He licked his lips deliberately and she parted hers with equal provocation, the mutual need raw and desperate. The connection between them was beyond comprehension in logical terms; it was a manifestation of sheer, inexplicable,  _animal_  lust.

"Fuck me," Flora whispered, blushing at her own crudeness. "Hard."

Loghain was only too ready to acquiesce; leaning her back and gripping her thighs. With a sudden vigour that was in part prompted by the earlier kiss, the general began to bounce the pretty mage on his lap. Flora whimpered with delight; at this angle, the veins on her lover's cock rubbed with delicious pressure against her most sensitive internal spot.

The wet sound of flesh colliding echoed around the tent, loud enough to be heard even above the low patter of drizzle against canvas. His grunts and her moans were also plainly audible through the thin material. The guards at the tent entrance were caught between arousal and astonishment; the royal commander had not had a partner since they had arrived at Ostagar. Instead, he was accustomed to spilling his seed with military efficiency each night at eleven bells before retiring. Now the sounds of an impatient fist tugging on flesh had been replaced by the unmistakable rhythm of a girl bouncing desperately on a cock, making no effort to bite back her cries of pleasure. Her wails mingled with the royal commander's throaty groans; the two panting like Mabari in heat as they rutted.

Within the tent, the old soldier gripped his prize with possessive hands; the world beyond the four canvas walls of the tent utterly inconsequential. Nothing mattered save for the slender girl moving vigorously on his thighs; pert breasts quivering with every vertical thrust. Her head was tilted back, sweaty hair plastered to her shoulders, lips parted as ragged cries escaped from her throat.

Unable to resist, Loghain's fingers found their way down to her folds; giving himself a taste of the sweet nectar that he was rapidly becoming obsessed with. After licking her sweetness from his own finger, the general offered some to her. Instead of extending her tongue, Flora took his whole finger into her mouth and sucked on it, gazing at him with desperate, primal need.

The warrior rose to his young partner's challenge. Letting out a growl, he pulled Flora close to his chest, leaned back to find the angle he wanted, then began to hammer his cock deep between her yielding folds. The thrusting was fast and relentless, a military pace of four strokes every heartbeat; his sweaty sac made a rapid slap between her thighs. Both of them were now panting like animals. There was a guttural edge to the general's moans, which he no longer made any effort to suppress. Flora's cries were incoherent pleas for him not to stop.

His open palm came down on her buttock hard and she gasped, eyes wide.

"Again- " came the plea, and the general delivered another stinging slap; this time, his fingers gripped the peachy cheek and pulled it to the side. One thumb slid between her buttocks and began to tease the wrinkled pucker. Flora's cries took on a newly ragged edge, her fingers clutching his shoulders in a death-grip.

"I'm-  _I'm- going to "_

"Come for me, lass," Loghain grunted, sweat rolling down his forehead as he drove himself into her with unrelenting fervour. "Don't hold back."

The general needn't have worried, Flora  _never_  held herself back when she came. As the dam broke within her and pleasure rolled forth in great, unstoppable waves, the young mage let out a wail of pure bliss; raw and unadulterated. Loghain gripped her trembling body tight, savouring the sensation of a girl climaxing hard on his shaft. He allowed himself a moment of pause to appreciate the ripples of her quivering slit, leaning forward to mutter in her ear.

"Ready to take my seed?"

He did not give her time to respond, resuming the rapid thrust of his cock between her saturated folds. She panted and clung to him; dazed from the sheer intensity of the orgasm he had given her.

The general felt himself shudder, his sac clench in preparation; without seeking permission, he let his sweaty fingertip nudge a half-inch within her pinprick pucker. Flora whimpered but made no move to stop him, which promoted the old soldier to slide his finger in a full inch.

"Mm," whispered his lover, shy and dreamy. "Feels so nice."

This admission was enough to tip Loghain over the edge. He clutched his partner to his chest, leaned back as far as the chair would allow, and thrust himself brutally hard between her tender folds. A moment later, his buttocks clenched as his cock spasmed; the general let out a shout as he released spurt after spurt of seed inside the young mage's cunt.

Heart racing, Loghain tilted his head back with a low groan; his muscles drained and sore from such rapid expenditure of energy. Flora was still slumped on his lap, her eyes half-closed; one finger idly winding one of the dark braids that hung at the old soldier's ears. The animal frenzy of those last few minutes had taken both by surprise, Flora's folds felt as deliciously sore as they had done when Duncan first claimed her virginity.

"You've quite the prize between those legs, lass," the general murmured, cupping one of her buttocks idly in his palm. "I almost believed myself a young man again inside that tight little cunt. Ah, but I wish I had a young man's ability to  _recover._ I'd fuck you on every surface in this tent."

Even as he spoke, the general felt a crushing disappointment as his deflating cock slipped from between her folds. Flora lifted her dreamy, lust-laced gaze to him, tentative and hopeful.

"Do you want to... go again?" she replied, blushing at her own forwardness. "I can't make you young, but I can make you  _feel_ young."

Loghain's eyes darkened with interest and scepticism; he cleared his throat and let an appraising stare settle on Duncan's uniquely gifted little mage.

"Go on then," he instructed, thickly.

 _I'm impatient to sheathe my cock in you once more,_ the man's thought continued, unspoken.  _A few minutes out and I'm desperate to thrust back between those velvet folds._

Flora let the tip of her tongue rub over her lips, wetting them in preparation. She reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, then blushed.

"We need to kiss," she whispered, now strangely shy. "My magic passes through my mouth, I don't know- "

He took her chin between her fingers and kissed her, rough and full of unspoken need. Flora put her arm around his neck and parted her lips, blatantly inviting him into her mouth. Soon their tongues were thrusting together in a passion-fuelled writhe; it was a hard and desperate kiss that lasted far longer than it took for Flora's rejuvenative energy to pass between them. Despite the new vigour flooding his limbs, the general kept his mouth firmly on the young mage's. Flora had no desire to end the kiss, twining her other arm around his neck and encouraging his ardour with little whimpers. Their kiss lasted several unbroken minutes; during which Loghain found himself half-hard once again.

As they parted, Flora's eyes dropped immediately to the thick shaft, which lay plump and semi-flaccid on the general's thigh. She was eager to climb back onto her fellow northerner's cock and begin their next round of lovemaking. The redhead was already slick between the legs at the thought of enjoying Loghain's veined manhood for a second time.

"Let me," she whispered, slithering from his lap onto the rush matting. "Mm."

This time, Flora did not use any of the tricks and techniques that Duncan had taught her. Desperate to resume their lovemaking as soon as possible, she pleasured him with little finesse but extensive enthusiasm; suckling frantically on his rapidly stiffening length.

A strangled grunt of encouragement escaped the general's throat. He reached down a trembling hand to touch her bobbing head, then began to undo his shirt with clumsy fingers. During their previous rut, Loghain had simply pulled his cock from his breeches to save time; now, he wanted there to be no barrier between their bodies.

 _I want to feel her against me as I fuck her,_ he thought, licking his lips with anticipation.  _The sweat of her skin on my body. Clothes will get in the way of what I intend to do to this little northern lass._

Flora let the general's stiff cock reluctantly slip from her mouth, unable to resist tucking it back between her lips for a few more greedy suckles. When she raised her eyes, she saw Loghain naked before her. The old soldier's body still had the powerful frame of a warrior, though some of the muscle had lost definition over the years of desk-work. Myriad scars were strewn over the flesh; the majority of them several decades old.

"Get on your hands and knees, lass," he instructed, stroking his length in an idle, callused palm as he drank in her nakedness. "I'm going to take you like a good Fereldan girl."

As promised, he took her next like a Mabari; hard and on all fours on the damp matting. Then, after another bout of rejuvenating attention from her lips, the general had the mage – who was, for these few precious hours,  _his_ – a third time. He had her for a short time on top of the desk, parchment and inkwells scattered; then he thrust her down onto the bed, panting like something not quite human as he mounted his equally breathless partner once more.

Their lovemaking did not deserve such a sentimental decoration; it was sweaty and deliciously animal. Duncan, whose strength was admittedly augmented by the taint, tended to hold back a portion of his power when he and his  _qalbi_ were in bed together. Loghain had no such concerns; Flora was a northern girl and had all the corresponding sturdiness, despite the deceptive slightness of her frame.

Finally, just as the bell rung for the final Chantry service of the evening, activities ceased. The oil in the lamps had long since burnt out and the only light in the tent was borrowed from a reluctant moon, poking slender, silvered fingers through gaps in the canvas.

Loghain stood beside the desk with a hand rested atop it, trying to convince himself that he did not need its assistance to remain upright. He felt each of his five decades in his sore joints and overused muscles, but the decadent lethargy flooding the channels of his body was more than worth all the accompany ache. For the first time in an indeterminate span of years, he felt wholly sated.

After taking another long draw from a flagon of ale, he – almost guiltily – let his eyes wander back to the figure on the bed. Flora, who never thought to cover herself after lovemaking was over, was sprawled on the blankets, entirely naked. She had a thick rope of crimson hair between her fingers and was inspecting a knot near the end of it; mildly perplexed but not irritated. The moonlight spilled across the gentle meanders of her body; delighting in the unbroken creaminess of the skin and the ripe fecundity of the flesh.

"I don't know how it gets so tangled," Flora mumbled, then blushed because she  _did_ know; it was a result of the evening's activities.

A moment later she sat up, stifling a yawn and looking about the tent for her discarded clothes. Loghain watched the Warden recruit pad barefoot over the rush matting, reaching down to retrieve her shirt from beneath the desk. Her breeches were tossed carelessly over the back of the chair.

"You could stay," the general offered gruffly, aware that he sounded irritable. "Think it's raining outside."

Flora shot him a reproving look, buttoning up her shirt. She did not need to explain her disapproval: they were both from the  _north,_ where it rained more often than not.

"I'm going to go," she breathed, peering around for her other boot. "It's getting late."

"Back to your commander?" the general replied, hoping that his sarcasm would mask the faint vein of envy in his words.

"Mm," Flora said vaguely, almost falling over in her haste to pull on her boot. "Thank you for…eh. Thank you. I enjoyed it."

She flashed the general a shy, curving half-smile as she headed towards the canvas entrance. Loghain made no response, and she wondered if he was going to say anything more to her before she took her leave.

Just as Flora was about to reach out to the canvas entrance flap, Loghain strode to intercept her; glaring down at her with something unreadable in his dark Mac Tir eyes. Instead of speaking, he reached out and brushed her cheek roughly with a callused thumb. As she turned her clear, ambiguous gaze up to him, the king's father-in-law muttered something unintelligible under his breath and withdrew abruptly.

Flora peered at Loghain a moment longer, then pulled back the canvas flap and took her leave from the general's company.


	40. Back In Her Commander's Arms

Evening had settled on Ostagar like a filmy veil, creating pockets of shadow between the decrepit walls and crumbling balconies of the old fortress. Pillars threw strange shapes across the flagstones, and structures familiar during the day cast more foreboding silhouettes at night. The Tower of Ishal rose like a Chantry Mother’s chiding finger, blotting out the round sphere of the moon. A drizzle was falling from a breath of insipid cloud; deceptively light, though potent enough to soak anything caught out in it.

 With her staff slung over her shoulder, Flora made her way through the royal encampment; absentmindedly avoiding puddles but barely noticing the cool patter of drizzle against her shoulders. After all, she was a northern girl who was accustomed to being rained on from Satinalia to Summerday. She also did not mind the dark, since her raised fingers cast a muted glow that more-than-sufficiently lit her way forward.

 Flora was more concerned with escaping Cailan’s attentions than the inclement weather. In the face of the drizzle, the young nobles appeared to have abandoned their smouldering campfire and retired to one of the larger of their tents. Raucous, half-inebriated guffaws rang out through the canvas as Flora passed; someone named Fergus had just lost five gold coins on an unfortunate play of cards.

 Oddly enough, Cailan’s distinctive boyish laugh had not rung out with the rest of his peers. Flora, suddenly fearful that she might bump into the king amidst the shadowed tents, picked up her pace and scuttled between the pillars like a small crimson mouse.

  _He’ll either ask me into his tent or off on an ogre hunt._

  _Probably the latter._

 Fortunately, there was no sign of Ferelden’s overenthusiastic monarch. The moment that Flora had clattered down the stone steps leading down from the royal encampment, she let out a sigh of relief; barely taking heed of the Templar guards’ glowers.

 “Move along, mage,” muttered one, the words part-obscured behind the concealing helmet. “Back to the Warden tent with you.”

 Flora then paid a brief visit to the deserted wash-tent, abandoned by its servants for the night. This necessitated a freezing bath in the dregs of someone’s left-over water. The young mage sat, teeth chattering, within a copper tub while her fingers wandered over her body, healing the possessive marks left by the general as he sought to temporarily claim her. She healed the bite-marks on her neck and the bruises suckled into her breasts; a slight degree of contortion was needed to reach the pink imprint of a large palm on her buttocks. 

 With water streaming from her hair, Flora stood up and clambered from the bathtub, retrieving her damp shirt and breeches from the soggy matting. She dressed quickly and without being disturbed; the majority of Ostagar’s occupants had retreated to the relative dryness of their tents.

 The drizzle outside had graduated to a downpour, enough to attract even a northerner’s attention. Flora hunched her shoulders against the persistent wind and scuttled from the wash-tent; weaving her way around the abandoned cook-site and towards the Grey Warden encampment.

 Pulling a strand of damp hair from across her mouth, she passed the now familiar landmarks – the row of broken pillars, the toppled statue, the ledge once intended to hold siege weaponry – and headed towards the crumbling steps that led to the Wardens’ terrace.

 The two Wardens standing sentry at the base of the steps barely paid heed to the bedraggled recruit passing between them. Flora passed the abandoned piles of soggy ashes that had once been the evening’s campfire, then hesitated at the junction between the tents. Just ahead lay the row of plain and unassuming tents assigned to the senior wardens. Duncan’s was only distinguishable by the guard posted outside the entrance.

 Flora did not know whether Duncan desired her company that evening – she did not like to make any assumptions. The young mage knew that she was merely a welcome, pleasurable distraction from the burdens that the Warden-Commander bore; Flora was content with this, but likewise did not wish to add to the senior warden’s obligations.

  _I don’t want to be annoying,_ she thought to herself, with a solemn nod.  _I’m not tired yet. Maybe I’ll go back to the dormitory tent and see if Alistair will help me with my reading._

 A Chantry sister had pressed one of their innumerable religious tracts into Flora’s hand earlier that morning. Flora was ambivalent about its contents, but had been struck by a sudden ambitious desire to resume her reading practice. Even the lowliest soldier at Ostagar had some understanding of his letters, and Flora had been feeling increasingly anxious about her own illiteracy.

 Just then, raised voices caught her attention from the row of tents belonging to the senior wardens. A familiar, petulant voice tangled with a deeper, more measured response; the Highever accent tinged with something that hinted at foreign shores. Flora’s head swivelled towards the muffled altercation, and noticed that the usual guard posted outside Duncan’s tent had been joined by several royal soldiers.

  _Oh no!_ she thought to herself, eyes swivelling frantically.  _Quick! Move, idiot!_

 “Fine!  _Be_ that way,” retorted the unmistakeable voice of the king, obstinate and reproving. “Just remember who gives the orders around here. The Grey Wardens are subject to the crown, like any other citizen of Ferelden.”

 “The Grey Wardens are beholden to me,” replied their commander, low and dangerous. “Your father understood this well enough. Goodnight, Cailan.”

 The king of Ferelden shoved his way out of the tent with a face like thunder. The guards scrambled to follow in Cailan’s wake as he strode across the flagstones, gold-engraved boots splashing through the gathered puddles.

 “Why does he have to be so  _stubborn?”_ Maric’s eldest son complained, turning beseeching eyes on his guards. “We don’t need the help of dwarves, or – Maker forbid –  _elves._ We’re more than capable of taking on the Darkspawn with the numbers we have!”

 “Aye, your majesty,” agreed the guards, who were not expected to offer dissent.

 Flora, who had crouched down unceremoniously behind an abandoned cart, watched the king stride past. She had no idea what the two men had been arguing about, but had no desire to get herself caught up in it.

 _I don’t want to end up on any late-night ogre-hunting expeditions!_ the mage thought grimly to herself.  _No, thank you. One ogre is enough for one day._

Cailan’s footsteps hesitated on the other side of the cart – Flora realised with a start of alarm that her fingertips were still emitting a muted glow. She hastily shoved them into her mouth, wondering if the light was now shining from within her cheeks like an impossibly-ingested candle. Barely daring to breathe, she watched the progress of the king’s gold-foiled boots as they continued off into the night, flanked by a set of the more mundane greaves worn by the royal guards.

 Flora exhaled in relief, still crouching inelegantly behind the wooden cart.

  _I wonder what they were arguing about,_ she thought to herself, removing her fingers from her mouth and watching the glow beneath her nails gradually fade away.  _Hm, I wonder if-_

  _“Qalbi.”_

Flora’s crouching position behind the cart might have been indiscernible to Cailan’s eyes, but no Warden was invisible to their commander. Duncan felt the presence of each member of his order as a prickle in the base of his skull, courtesy of the shared taint in their blood.

 Not only had the Warden-Commander perceived the proximity of his new recruit; he had moved silent and swift as a passing ghost around the cart to stand beside her. When Flora – oblivious – had started biting at her thumbnail, Duncan had cleared his throat softly.

 Flora almost fell sideways in alarm, her head spinning around and upwards to take in the familiar face of her commander. The flickering light from a nearby brazier glinted from the gold ring in Duncan’s ear; the rest of his features were veiled in shadow. The rich ochre of his skin was drained of warmth by the lack of natural illumination, the faded strands running through the hair stood out like threads of silver. As a youth, the commander must have been handsome in a piratical way; three decades of a life hard-lived had scored lines across the olive brow and gnawed at the corners of the eyes. Traces of a young man’s rakish charm could usually be detected – mostly in the wry twist of the mouth and the amused glint of the dark iris – but there was no amusement in the commander’s face on this particular night. Instead, he appeared weary, and fully each one of his five decades.

 “I’m not sure Cailan has the stomach to venture out after dark in search of ogres,” he observed, having correctly guessed the cause of Flora’s self-concealment. “He prefers to seek them out in daylight, on his own terms.”

 Flora clambered inelegantly to her feet, slightly pink-faced at being discovered. Despite the mud on her knees, the drizzle-soaked clothing, the rain-damp hair hanging loose around her waist; the young mage would have been a welcome arrival at any man’s tent at Ostagar. The wet shirt clung determinedly to the pert swells of Flora’s breasts; she gazed up at her commander with the usual full-lipped solemnness.

 The corner of Duncan’s mouth twisted reluctantly upwards. He reached down to touch her face, cupping the fine-boned cheek affectionately in a callused palm.

 “I won’t be good company tonight,  _amira,”_ he murmured, rueful and genuinely apologetic. “I have… much on my mind.”

  _The burden I bear is weightier than usual._

 His recruit said nothing but gazed anxiously up at him, her eyes like soft, silver lanterns in the darkness. Duncan was oddly reluctant to remove his fingers from her face; which was too fair and finely-hewn for such dismal surroundings.

 “You might enjoy yourself better elsewhere, Flora _._ Do not deprive yourself of a warm bedroll on a rainy night.”

 Flora bit at her lip; understanding full-well what her commander meant.

  _If I went back to the general’s tent now, I wouldn’t leave it until the morning. He’d take my mouth as often as he needed in order to rut me over and over._

  _If I went back to the dormitory tent, Alistair might be there. If he’s overcome his embarrassment from earlier, he might want to share a blanket._

This was a reference to the blanket that the two recruits pulled over themselves whenever they lacked privacy in the tent. Their bedrolls were tucked in a far corner – nobody had wanted to sleep near a mage – but there was still no partition to screen their nocturnal fumbling from prying eyes. The blanket afforded a small barrier; although the sounds of rustling, wet flesh being stroked, and Flora’s excited little pants made their activities obvious enough. On a previous morning, the pretty mage had reached a muffled, distinct climax beneath the blanket; the wetness of her fingered cunt clearly audible. At breakfast, several older Wardens had grinned and nudged Alistair slyly. The handsome recruit had blushed, but was secretly delighted at this acknowledgment of his newfound manhood. 

 “I’d like to stay with you,” Flora said thoughtfully, reaching up to spread her fingers over Duncan’s weatherbeaten hand. “I don’t mind if you’re not good company or not.”

 Suddenly careless of whoever saw them, Flora’s commander gripped her slender wrist and brought her whole hand to his mouth; kissing her small knuckles with sudden, impulsive affection. He need not have worried about prying eyes: the rain had driven the rest of Ferelden’s Grey Wardens beneath the meagre protection of canvas.

 “Ah, I won’t pretend I’m not glad,” Duncan murmured against the slender, curling fingers, inhaling the soft, clean scent of her. “I’m just a selfish old man, happy that my crimson goshawk has returned.”

 Flora did not grasp the meaning of the Rivaini native’s reference, but smiled up at him shyly; surprised at such a public display of affection. The senior warden lowered her fingers from his mouth, while turning a malevolent eye to the mass of cloud overhead.

 “ _Amira_ , I’ll never become accustomed to this Fereldan drizzle,” he grumbled, keeping her hand clasped in his as he turned back towards the entrance to his tent. “How can the sky hold so vast a quantity of liquid? Come, let’s get inside.”

 “I like it,” replied the stoic northerner on his heels, walking straight through a puddle that the more observant Rivaini had avoided. “Back home, in Herring, it rains  _all the time.”_

Duncan laughed, shooting her a wry glance over his shoulder. Although he had spent some time in the teyrnir of Highever, he had never heard of the ignominious little hamlet named after a fish _._ He found it hard to imagine the young spirit-healer – whose abilities were narrow but exceptionally potent – being raised by a collective of isolated and uneducated fishermen.

 “Well, if such a climate grows clever creatures like you,” he said, striding forward before the guard could react and lifting the canvas entrance flap for her himself.  “I cannot help but appreciate it.”

 Flora rarely heard her own name in conjunction with the word  _clever_. She ducked her head to try and hide her delight; fingers twisting excitedly in her sleeves.

 After they had entered the plain, utilitarian expanse of the commander’s tent, Duncan headed back to fasten the laces of the entrance flap closed. Several of the candles had quailed in the face of the evening damp; the Rivaini lit them with practised swiftness. Once the tent was bathed in soft, waxy light, he crossed to where Flora was sitting on the bunk. She had been unlacing her boots but stopped as he lowered himself to the mattress beside her.

 Duncan gazed down at his young lover as she turned her face towards him; a mist of drizzle webbed across her hair like a veil and the pink of her skin visible through the wet linen of the shirt. They reached for each other in the same moment, her arms winding around his neck and his encircling her waist. Their mouths came together with mutual relief, lips working in tender, familiar rhythm.

 Neither wanted the kiss to end, and so one kiss turned into several; each press of the lips increasingly needful as tenderness turned into urgency. He clutched a handful of her abundant hair, she pressed herself against him with unashamed desire, fingers anchoring themselves in his clothing. The tongues of the commander and his recruit were intimate partners by this point, dancing in a slow, sensual harmony.

 In a sudden, rough thrust, Duncan had her on the mattress beneath him; breathing hard and with her leg already bent up in readiness. She let out a moan of invitation, peering at him from beneath her eyelashes.

 The Warden-Commander had unbuttoned two of the buttons at the top of his breeches before he regained some semblance of his senses. With great effort he drew back, the breath escaping his throat in ragged bursts of arousal. Flora gazed up at him, her lips pink and parted in expectation; the flush of excitement on her neck creeping down beyond the collar of her shirt. Duncan let out a groan, pushing himself upright with naked reluctance.

  _“Qalbi,_ you are a sweet and extremely potent distraction,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth curling ruefully as he eyed her. “But I must finish these letters, and in order to do so, I must turn my back on you and pretend that you are not there.”

 Flora nodded solemnly, then put a finger to her lips and gave him a meaningful look.

 “I’ll be as quiet as a… a barnacle,” she whispered, after a moment spent trying to think of a sea-creature without a mouth. “You won’t even know I’m here.”

 Duncan let out a soft snort of amusement, casting his appreciative gaze over her languid, tousle-haired beauty once again as he rose to his feet.

 “Believe me,  _zahra_ , I shall know.”

 Flora peered at him through the shadowed tent. Moonlight spilled across her fine-hewn features; the full lips, the wide and deeply earnest eyes. Duncan paused for a moment, and then gave a soft, resigned chuckle at his own weakness.

 “Ah, I’m an old fool – show me one of those pretty breasts as motivation to finish my work more quickly.”

 Flora obligingly opened the corner of her shirt, letting him feast his eyes on a small, creamy breast; round and plump as a goose-egg. The Warden-Commander made a thick, unintelligible sound deep in his throat. Unable to help himself, he reached forward and took her nipple between finger and thumb, coaxing it to stiffness with a gentle rub.

 “Just like a ripe mango,” he murmured, admiring the pert swell of flesh. “Delicious.”

 “Like a man?” Flora replied, bemused.

 Duncan laughed, pressing a swift kiss to the creamy flesh before buttoning her shirt back up.

 “A  _mango, qalbi._ They are native to Rivain; I doubt the climate this far south would support such plants.”

 The native of the northern coast shot him a dubious look. In turn, Duncan felt a sudden surge of affection for his under-traveled young recruit; wishing suddenly that there was  _more time_ to show her the parts of the world that lay beyond her narrow field of experience _._ He reached forward a final time to touch Flora’s high, pale brow; smoothing out the crease of confusion with an affectionate thumb.

 “I won’t be too long with this correspondence, sweeting. Get you to bed, and I’ll be there soon enough.”

 Flora pushed herself onto her elbows, stifling an absent-minded yawn as she watched her commander relocate to the desk. All the cares that she had temporarily lifted seemed to crash back upon Duncan’s shoulders like a breaking wave; the Warden-Commander exhaled a long breath as he thought about the task at hand.

  _No man has felt such responsibility as this for centuries. Who would have thought that such a charge would fall on a cut-purse and thief from the gutters of Rivain?_

  _Ah, but that was another life._

While Duncan brooded over sheets of parchment and lists of figures, Flora retrieved the tract from the Chantry and unfolded it. Rolling over onto her stomach, she squinted down at the unfamiliar letters. Not only did they seem utterly foreign, but the small, hand-inked figures appeared to  _move –_ they squirmed about the page like little insects. Even putting a finger beneath them did not tame their illicit wrigglings.

 

 The shroud of night settled on Ostagar; darkness pooling between the tents and across the crumbling terraces like spilt lamp-oil. The twin towers of Ishal and Nider rose in chastising fingers at either side of the valley, casting stern silhouettes over the clusters of tents and men below. There were no campfires or conviviality to be found on such a dreary night; instead, the soldiers huddled gloomily around braziers or retired early to their bedrolls.

 The Warden-Commander’s limbs had stiffened from their prolonged contortion behind a desk; his spine ached and his knees throbbed like a man ten years his senior. A half-dozen crumpled sheets of parchment lay before him: letters begun and discarded, calculations with displeasing outcomes. Two quills lay to one side with splintered tips from excessive pressure of use. Duncan had been labouring over correspondence for the past two hours – paperwork had always been his least favourite aspect of leading the Wardens, especially when it involved the logistics of combatting a Blight.

 Still, for two hours, he had diligently striven over letters and ledgers; until his eyes were sore from focusing in guttering candlelight. The senior Warden had even managed to resist the temptation of the girl sprawled on his bed. He had allowed himself just one glance over his shoulder  – she was lying on her belly, frowning down at a sheet of parchment. The sight of her small, naked feet waving absentmindedly in the air made Duncan want to draw her toes into his mouth.

 Instead, gritting his teeth, the Warden-Commander resisted the urge to rise from his chair and join his young lover on the bed. He turned back to his correspondence and forced himself to focus on the neat rows of figures. After a while, the soft rustling of parchment from behind him stopped and he surmised that she had fallen asleep.

 The next hour was spent scribing letters that Duncan knew would never be sent; futile requests for aid from Ferelden’s mages, dwarves and elves. The Grey Wardens had the right to summon assistance from all free peoples of the land, yet their commander knew that the king would never countenance such a hybridised army. In Cailan’s view, it would dilute the glory allocated to himself and his troops in the event of a victory.

  _Young, brazen fool,_ Duncan thought, suddenly overcome with weariness.  _As a youth I was as reckless as you, but I never had the weight of a country resting on my shoulders. You gamble with the lives of hundreds of thousands, in the most dangerous game played in this Age and the last._

 He passed a hand over his face and let out a sigh that came out louder than intended. Just then, he felt lips pressing against his neck from behind; a face nuzzled against his hair and an arm curling around his shoulders. A kiss was pressed just behind his ear, then another; a little trail of them running down his neck.

 Despite it all, Duncan found himself smiling, and reaching up to caress the side of his young recruit’s face as she embraced him from behind.

 “Sorry,” she whispered, her thumb tracing the stubbed outline of his beard. “I stopped being like a barnacle.”

 He chuckled, twisting his head to intercept her mouth with his own. Their lips brushed together gently; the kiss tender and lingering.

 “Ah,  _qalbi,”_ the Warden-Commander murmured, reaching an arm back to draw her before him. “Sit on my knee while I finish. I’m in sore need of distraction.”

 “But you have to finish your letters,” she replied, with a northerner’s dogged work ethic. “It’s important.”

 He drew her onto his knee and pressed his face to her neck, inhaling the damp, woodsmoke scent of her skin. At first the intention was to follow this with a kiss, but Duncan soon found himself oddly grateful for the mere proximity of another person. The position of Warden-Commander was intended to be a lonely one; but only four times prior in Thedas’ history had such a burden of responsibility been placed on the shoulders of one alone.

  _Just my luck that the Fifth Blight had to come a mere handful of years before my Calling,_  wryly thought the man who had once been a carefree cutpurse in the streets of Dairsmuid.

 Flora, whose ability to read emotion far outweighed her ability to comprehend text, rested her chin on his shoulder. She could feel the race of her commander’s heart; the tension running rigid through his muscles like a  _halla_ cornered by Mabari. Without speaking, she let her hand run up and down the length of his spine in gentle, even rhythm. A moment later, she felt the pressure of his head resting against her own, a near-perceptible sigh whispering over her ear.

 They stayed wound in the embrace for the next short while; the quill motionless in the commander’s fingers. Flora felt the frantic heartbeat slow in gradual increments, the stiff limbs slackening against her own. He no longer clutched her needfully, but held her tight and appreciative against his chest.

  _“Amira.”_

 “Finish your writing,” Flora whispered, her lips lingering against his ear. “Then come to bed.”

 “If you think I’m letting you off my knee,  _qalbi,_ you’re much mistaken,” Duncan retorted, amusement and desire mingling across his weathered features. “Part those thighs a little wider for me.”


	41. Duncan's Realisation

The Warden-Commander found it far easier to finish the last of his letters swiftly with such tempting motivation perched on his thigh. His right hand moved the quill in brisk rapacity across the parchment, while his left hand cupped his lover firmly between her thighs. He could feel the pulse of needful heat even through the material of her trousers; his thumb idly traced the contours of her folds beneath the fabric.

 “Such a pretty cunt,” he murmured affectionately, giving it a squeeze. “Ripest little mound I’ve felt.”

 Flora’s hand was equally busy, her palm sliding over the thick length of her commander’s clothed cock. It lay broad and rigid against his thigh, pinned in place by the tight cloth of his breeches. She was already breathless with anticipation, unable to decide what she wanted to do first. She wanted to take Duncan’s cock in her mouth and feast on it; she wanted to climb atop it and start bucking her hips joyfully. She wanted to oil it up with the vial always kept near the bed, and beg him to enjoy the wrinkled little pinprick that Loghain had so jealously coveted.

 “Mm,” she mumbled into his neck, admiring the rich olive hue of the skin.

The inhabitants of Herring – and the Circle – had tended to be pallid from either a cloudy or cloistered lifestyle; Duncan’s complexion spoke of years infused with the heat of the sun.

 With a hand resting atop her commander’s shoulder, Flora began to work the tip of her tongue around his ear. The quill in Duncan’s hand paused as she nibbled gently at the outer shell, suckling on the flesh while being careful to avoid the gold ring looped through the lobe.

 “Did this hurt?” she asked after a moment, eyeing the piercing. “This hole?”

 “A little,” replied the Warden-Commander, amused by her curiosity. “But it was done so long ago that I barely remember it. Back when I was a youth in Rivain.”

 He laid the quill down on the parchment and reached up to finger her own small earlobe, the flesh whole and intact.

 “I don’t think it would work on me,” Flora continued, thoughtfully. “I think my body would heal any little holes I tried to make in it. My spirits wouldn’t put up with me  _puncturing_ myself. Weren’t you worried you might pop? When the needle went in?”

 Duncan smiled, attempting to summon the memory of the slender silvered needle’s prick. To his surprise, it came to him with remarkable clarity; accompanied by the face of the woman wielding the needle.

  _This girl’s breath has blown the cobwebs from my mind,_ he thought to himself in wonder.  _I’ve not been able to remember Daxia in years._

“The woman who did it was pierced here, here, and here,” he told her, touching Flora’s earlobe, her small nose, the plump and silky swell of her lower lip.

  _“Really?”_

Flora looked so startled that Duncan had to stifle a laugh, his finger lingering on her mouth. With a half-smile, he lowered his hand and slid it inside her shirt; caressing the tender pink nipple with a fingertip.

“Also here,” he added, enjoying her shock. “And down  _here.”_

A brief rustle of clothing later and his calloused finger was circling her clitoris; the tiny bud already slick and swollen with arousal.

  _“No!”_ breathed Flora, her eyes as wide as saucers.  _“Really?_ There?”

 He gave a grunt, paddling the sensitive nub as she whimpered and squirmed on his knee.

 “Mm.”

 “REALLY?”

 “I saw it with my own eyes,  _qalbi._ Careful, don’t fall.”

 Yet Flora couldn’t stop herself from wriggling; Duncan’s experienced little strokes were sending ripples of pleasure throughout her core. She pushed herself hungrily against his hand, desperate for a finger to part her folds and nestle within her.

  _Or two,_ she thought, restraining a squeak of excitement.  _He might let me have two fingers._

Duncan smiled at his young recruit’s impatience; she was rocking herself against his hand in blatant invitation.

  _“Amira,”_ he murmured in her ear, lips brushing against the skin. “My lusty little creature.”

 He let one long finger extend, calloused from decades of intimacy with a blade. Without hesitation, she reached down and gripped his wrist, guiding his finger purposefully inside her. It slid in with no resistance save for the natural constrictions; both he and she let out a small sigh of relief. To Duncan’s amusement, his own active participation was unnecessary  _–_ his recruit was content to control the motion of his wrist, guiding his finger in and out of her slick folds.

  _I need to find her a phallus she can use on herself,_ the Warden-Commander thought idly, letting the tip of his finger crook inwards to stimulate the most sensitive internal spot. _Now she’s comfortable with self-penetration._

  _More than comfortable; look at how confidently she fucks herself on my finger. Let’s give her a second._

 The moment Duncan let another finger uncurl, he felt it guided immediately between his young lover’s folds. Now the tight, sucking heat enveloped both of his fingers. She felt like velvet around him, wrapped impossibly tight; there was an urgency to her whimpers that stimulated some deep and primal desire within the old Rivaini.

 “You wanton minx,” he said in amusement, watching her eagerly take him to the second knuckle. “Did the general’s cock not satisfy you earlier? Did he leave this pretty cunt wanting?”

 Flora blushed, recalling the sweaty, wordless writhings that she and Loghain had engaged in for several illicit hours; they’d fucked like animals in heat against every surface of his tent. After each spending of seed, she had suckled desperately on his leaking manhood; coaxing it to fullness with her rejuvenating lips so that she could mount him once again.

 “No, he left me satisfied,” she replied, trying not to smile as she recalled her own wails of unashamed pleasure. “But he wasn’t  _you_. It’s… it’s  _different_  with you.”

 The soft, wet pump of Duncan’s fingers paused for the briefest of moments before resuming their rhythmic thrust. Her arousal ran in gleaming rivulets down the contours of his palm; she was more than ready to take his thick-barrelled shaft, but the Warden-Commander wanted suddenly to know  _more._ He fingered her in slow, deep strokes as she lounged on his lap; her head lolling to one side as ropes of thick, crimson hair hung loose like trailing seaweed.

 “Mm, I could listen to this sound all day,” he breathed, relishing each delicious  _squelch_ coaxed from her greedy slit. “Beautiful. What do you mean, it feels different with me?”

 Flora forced her thoughts into some sort of order; her mind was consumed with swirling tides of pleasure and anticipation.

 “When we kiss, I feel as good as when we lie together,” she whispered shyly, aware that she was not eloquent with words. “It makes me warm  _everywhere_ , not just… between my legs. And I like to lie in your arms even when we aren’t doing things. The general asked me to stay, but I didn’t want to. I wanted to come to you.”

 Duncan at once felt a dual surge of equal vigour, joy and regret entwining like twin serpents around his heart. He pressed a kiss to the tousled, richly red hair to hide the conflict writ naked across his face; the Warden-Commander had learnt to veil his emotions well over the years, but there was no disguising sentiment of this bittersweet potency.

  _My sweet qalbi,_ he thought, despairingly.  _Feelings of that sort should not bloom in the cruel conditions of Ostagar. The soil is too harsh and the climate too unforgiving. There are dark clouds on the horizon that spell doom for all living things._

  _Maker, what seeds have I inadvertently planted in this child?_

Then she turned her face up to him and smiled, guileless and innocent in her expression of emotion. Her eyes were vast and rain-coloured; the full mouth an inverse of the usual sulky curve; there was a dark eyelash resting on the finely hewn contour of her cheek. From this close distance, a faint tan scattering of freckles was visible across her upturned nose.

  _Shit,_ the Warden-Commander realised, in utter disbelief.  _I’m in love with my recruit._

  _Well, fuck me._

He suddenly wanted nothing more than to kiss her; to cover the plump, pouting lips with his own mouth and inhale the very  _essence_  of her. In order to stop himself from saying anything inappropriate – or overly sentimental – Duncan withdrew his fingers and pulled her into an embrace. Instead of expressing dismay at the cessation of pleasure, Flora put her arms around his neck and hugged him back with unashamed delight.

 There was a rustle of parchment as her breast pressed against his tunic; he glanced down and saw a crumpled pamphlet covered in tiny handwriting, stuffed haphazardly into her blouse. A Chantry symbol was etched in the far corner, torn but still recognisable.

 “What’s this?”

 “Dunno,” Flora mumbled, impatient to get back to their activities. “Some Chantry sister gave it to me earlier. I can’t read it, I don’t know my letters.”

 She nuzzled her face against his neck, her breath hot and ticklish. Duncan smiled, momentarily distracted by the press of her mouth to his chin. Reaching up to caress her cheek with an idle thumb, he moved the pamphlet towards the weak pool of light flooding from the candle.

  _Magic: The Neverending Blight of Thedas,_ the Warden-Commander read, his dark Rivaini eyes moving across the handwritten title. _Or, a Treatise on Why Mages Are the Maker’s Least Favoured Children._

Other fragments of text leapt out at him as he scanned the neatly scribed work.

  _Magical damnation…. the hand of sin… forsaken and forsworn…. Mankind’s curse…._

 “I think perhaps it’s about Darkspawn,” his oblivious young mender continued, her voice muffled against his skin. “It has evil faces on it.”

 Duncan felt a sudden swell of rage rise within his stomach, storm-surge of uncharacteristic fury. A cloud descended over his vision and for a moment it felt as though his veins were flooded with the poisonous run-off from some alchemist’s experiment; hot and burning and bilious.

  _How dare any supercilious priestess press this vitriol into the hand of this uniquely gifted girl, whose breath reverses decay and whose shield repels the wrath of ogres?_

 He took a deep and steadying breath; the anger resonating in waves within the broad muscle of his chest.

  _These Fereldans. I will never comprehend their ignorance and irrational fear of those who bear magic. It is a gift from the Maker, not a curse._

Duncan nudged his bewildered mage from his knee, rising to his feet with the fury rapidly solidifying into cold and steely purpose. Fastening the loose ties of his shirt with one hand, he tugged up a thoroughly confused Flora’s breeches with the other.

 “Whaa,” she said, used to her clothing moving in the opposite direction.

 “Tame your hair and button your blouse,  _zahra_ , _”_ he replied, tautening the grip of the leather band on his dark, grey-streaked hair. “We are going to visit the Chantry Mother.”

  _“We?_ Me, too?”

 There came a grunt of confirmation. Flora’s eyes widened, an almost comedic expression of dismay writ across her face. Ostagar’s Chantry Mother was a formidable woman with hair like tightly curled steel wool and a thundering, vengeful bellow.

 “Oh NO!”

 “Oh  _yes,_ sweeting. Come on, find your boots.”


	42. Seeking Out Mother Rohesia

Flora dutifully retrieved her boots and attempted to flatten her hair, with moderate success. Duncan, who had already finished readying himself, stood silent at the entrance to the tent. He carried himself like an old wolf separate from the pack; wary and watchful, muscles kept taut in a state of constant readiness. Flora could not see the expression on his face, only the lean, rugged silhouette projected against the canvas.

She passed her hands once more over her unruly oxblood hair, then – overcome with sudden dread – dragged her palms over her cheeks and mouthed a quiet  _O_ of dismay. Flora had only encountered the Chantry Mother twice since her arrival at Ostagar, and both times had gone extremely poorly. On the first occasion, she had accidentally collided with the steely-haired priestess' Templar escort while running to the infirmary to treat a man clawed by a Hurlock. Flora had gone sprawling in the mud; the old priestess had snapped to her guard to clear the  _mage_  from her path. The Templars had dutifully picked up the dazed girl and dumped her several feet to the side.

On the second occasion, Flora had been waiting for Alistair near the base of the Tower of Ishal; her brother-warden had broken his shield-strap and had headed back to the Warden camp to fetch it. Flora had leant against a pillar in the meantime, absentmindedly watching flecks of golden mist drift upwards from beneath her nails. She had just finished mending the broken leg of a knight's horse – saving it from being mercifully slain – and remnants of her magic still clung to her fingers.

Just then, a hiss of disapproval had blasted into her left ear; sharp and reproving as a slap. Flora had twisted around in alarm, only to see the Chantry Mother glaring at her with contempt writ raw across the weathered features.

" _Wanton, disgusting,"_ the venerable priestess had hissed, spittle flecking onto Flora's face. "Stop this flagrant display  _immediately,_ mage. Or else you'll spend a night in the pillory."

The woman flung a wrinkled hand towards the wooden stocks in the centre of the camp, intended for those guilty of petty crimes. Flora had clasped her fingers into fists, desperately hoping that the magic had stopped leaking from her skin.

The Chantry Mother had swept a final contemptuous stare over the crestfallen mage, before processing forwards with her chin held aloft.

Now, bathed in the guttering candlelight within Duncan's tent, Flora felt a surge of nauseous trepidation at the thought of facing the formidable old woman again. Ironically enough, within the Circle there had been some measure of protection for mages – the Templars at Kinloch Hold were disciplined and adhered strictly to protocol. Flora was uncomfortably aware that now she was out in the wider world, there were fewer rules and regulations regarding the treatment of those who wielded magic.

Duncan, who had been staring at a damp patch on the canvas while fuming inwardly, glanced over his shoulder to see if his young recruit had made herself ready. Flora had, but the apprehension was naked across her fine-boned face and the buttons of her blouse had been fastened wrongly.

" _Qalbi,"_ the Warden-Commander said, noticing how she had fixed her pale eyes to the woven matting on the floor.  _"Qalbi,_ look at me."

Flora did as she was told, turning her face up to him. Not even her northern stoicism was strong enough to hide the clouds of anxiety brewing in her gaze, and Duncan reached out to cup her cheek in a protective hand.

"You have nothing to fear from the old woman," he assured her, low and earnest. "Her ire will be directed towards me, I promise you."

"I'm a mage," she replied, so quiet that he had to lean closer to hear her. "I have  _everything_  to fear."

Duncan felt some of his fury subside; overtaken by the need to reassure the nervous girl. He spread his palm over the small of Flora's back, drawing her into the protective wall of his chest.

"When I took you from the Circle, Flora, you became my responsibility," he told the top of her dark red head; her face was hidden against her tunic. "Regardless of our relationship, I would always protect a recruit of mine from ill-treatment. The Order is a brotherhood, after all."

Until the last moment Duncan had been intending to use the word  _arrangement_  to describe the liaison between himself and the redheaded northerner; but when it came down to it, his lips had formed the word  _relationship_ instead _._

Flora half-smiled wistfully up at him, spreading her palm over his broad chest. She did not comprehend the significance of her lover's particular choice of words, but appreciated the sentiment.

Duncan looked down at the small fingers splayed across his tunic; her thumb resting gently on top of the steady throb of his heart.

 _Her little hand looks so utterly ordinary,_ he thought to himself, caught between wryness and wonder.  _One would never guess at the power lying dormant in these fingers._

_She bites her nails. Most would protect those precious hands with lambskin gloves._

He caught up her hand in his own broad palm, snaring the slender fingers within his calloused ones; then brought her hand to his lips.

" _Zahra."_

"I'd rather see the Darkspawn ogre from this morning again than the Chantry Mother," Flora then whispered, rolling her eyes tragically. There was an element of humour to her comment – she had clearly resigned herself to the visit.

 _She's trying to make light of the situation, poor creature,_ the Warden-Commander realised.  _What was it that she once told me? She's not naturally brave, so she always tries her best not to be a coward._

He took her face in both hands and ducked his head, brushing her startled mouth lightly with his own desirous lips. Impatient, he deepened the kiss almost instantly, his tongue delving hungrily past her parted lips to seek out its usual partner. Breathless, she wound her fingers in his tunic to steady herself; their tongues moving in slow, potent twists. Their mouths had always fit exceptionally well together – even their first kiss on that marshy riverbank had a strange familiarity to it, as though they had been lovers in some past life.

It was a long time before they parted. When they did so, she was panting shamelessly and he was staring down at her like a wolf would eye a morsel of meat, eyes dark and purposeful. Keeping her pinned against him, Duncan's gaze slid over Flora's shoulder to the campbed; his thoughts writ naked over his face.

 _Yes!_ Flora thought triumphantly, parting her thighs to allow his knee to nudge between them.  _Get distracted! Maybe I should open my shirt._

Unfortunately, Duncan's eyes then settled on the crumpled piece of parchment, lying discarded on the desk. He let out a low rumble of anger, releasing Flora abruptly before striding over and snatching up the offending pamphlet.

"Come,  _amira._ We've a priestess to seek out."

It was a typically gloomy autumnal night, accompanied by a fine, misting drizzle falling over the ancient fortress. The rain trickled in rivulets down the scattered remnants of columns, turned dust into mud and pooled on the roofs of canvas tents; it gathered in puddles over the uneven flagstones and crept through layers of clothing with insidious efficacy. The shadows brooded in corners, stretching out long fingers wherever the light of the fat-bellied cauldron braziers did not reach.

To Flora's dismay, her commander's convictions were not dampened by the inclement weather. Duncan strode on several paces ahead, fuelled by the fire of righteous indignation; soldiers returning from drunken revelry or other illicit liaison hastily removed themselves from his path. The Rivaini's anger rose from him like a miasma; as though the rich, sunbaked olive of his skin repelled the attempts of the Fereldan rain to subdue it.

 _Handing out their damned propaganda at a time when we should be united against the Darkspawn,_ the Warden-Commander thought fiercely to himself as he strode through the drizzle.  _The Chantry are fools if they can't see the value of magic on the battlefield. A mage is worth ten foot-soldiers when fighting a pack of Hurlocks._

_I'm not just doing this because some handwritten ignorance was pressed into the hand of my crimson-headed qalbi, who fortunately was not able to read the vitriol directed against her. No mage at Ostagar should be subjected to ill-treatment or discrimination. The Blight ought to be the great leveller: they are all Fereldan, regardless of race or nature._

Despite this worthy justification – he was protesting on behalf of  _all_ mages present within the fortress – Duncan was aware that he would not be charging up to the Chantry Mother's tent in the middle of the night if not for the fact that his own lover possessed magic.

_If not for her, I most likely would have waited until morning._

He glanced over his shoulder to check that the girl in question was keeping up with his anger-fuelled stride. Flora was trailing about a half-dozen yards behind; lingering through a combination of reluctance and shorter legs.

Duncan came to a halt beside a smouldering brazier, waiting for her to catch up with him. He could not help but laugh as she trudged into the pool of ruddy firelight; her hair half-falling from its restraining band, the buttons on her shirt fastened wrongly, and her lower lip thrust outwards in clear dissatisfaction.

" _Amira,"_ he murmured, glancing quickly about to check that no overly interested eyes had espied them. Fortunately, the rain had driven most of Ostagar's denizens inside their tents. "You look freshly interrupted from a tumble."

Flora almost replied  _I wish!_ but managed to restrain herself, biting back the retort by nipping her lip. The Warden-Commander reached out and deftly refastened the buttons, matching each to its correct pair. By keeping his attention on her solemn, lovely and vaguely perturbed face, Duncan was able to avoid getting distracted by the glimpses of ripe, peachy flesh between the buttons.

"Come on," he said then, quiet and inexorable in his purpose. "Let us go seek out Mother Rohesia."

There was a small but ferociously devout chapter of the Chantry located within Ostagar – made up of those loyalists who had volunteered to undertake such a dangerous posting. As such, the priestesses and Chantry clerics within the old fortress tended to be of the more fanatical variety. They were located on a crumbling terrace in the eastern half of the bastion, colloquially known as  _Maker's Mount._ Duncan had allowed their residency at the fortress as long as strict guidelines were followed – Chantry services were not to take presidency over military drill.

 _I didn't give permission for them to hand out their damned treatises,_ the Warden-Commander thought as he strode past the startled Templar guard at the head of the terrace.  _As if the Chantry haven't been responsible for dissent enough over the years. I won't have further division promoted amongst my troops._

Two Chantry sisters were shuffling along in the drizzle ahead of them, their white hats drooping and damp. Both bore trays stacked with the distinctive glass vials used to house incense; a staple part of any religious ceremony. A half-dozen weighty cloth bags dangled from their arms, overflowing with religious donations from anxious soldiers desperate to reserve a place at the Maker's side in case the next encounter with the Darkspawn went ill.

"Where's Mother Rohesia?" Duncan demanded as he approached, in no mood for political niceties.

The two woman startled, glass and coin rattling as they almost dropped their precious cargo. Both heads turned as one, glares emerging from beneath the twin white caps that quickly turned into alarm as they saw the author of the question. From her position at the rear, Flora could not see Duncan's expression; from their reaction, it could not have been pleasant.

"Warden-Commander!" breathed one, quickly regaining the usual supercilious composure of a priestess. "What an unexpected pleasure. It's late for a social call – are your troops in need of blessings? You're finally ready to invite us into your camp?"

The snide implication was that the Grey Wardens – an order both denigrated and distrusted over the centuries, and who readily invited mages and heathens into their midst – were in deep need of salvation. The Chantry had offered, on several occasions, to provide special prayer sessions for the poor misguided Wardens; Duncan had rejected each offer without hesitation.

"I don't have time for this," the Warden-Commander said through gritted teeth, more to himself than to the sanctimonious faces of the priestesses.  _"Where_ is Mother Rohesia?"

"In the tent-chapel," replied the elder of the two women, grey eyebrows rising. "But she's in the middle of purifying the relics, and can't be inter- "

Duncan strode off before she had finished speaking, his jaw set and determined. Flora followed miserably in his wake, aware of several pairs of curious, mistrustful eyes settling between her shoulder-blades.

"Do you have a proper Templar escort for your mage?" rang out the piercing query from the younger of the two mages.

Duncan turned around, quick and defensive as a cobra rearing up from the sands of some distant desert. Fury blazed in the depths of coal-dark pupils and for a moment, Flora thought that he was going to bellow his rage across the length of Maker's Mount. Instead, the Rivaini managed to leash back his temper; his voice emerging as a growl.

"She doesn't need a fucking escort," he snarled, feeling incongruously like the notoriously foul-mouthed Loghain Mac Tir. "Go back to counting your ill-gotten gains."

As they continued towards the tent-chapel, Duncan forced his mood towards calm.

 _Stop acting like a Rivaini urchin in a petty street-feud,_ he thought to himself, grimly.  _There's no personal slight here. No blood-debt to be repaid._

_That was a lifetime ago._

He looked over his shoulder to check that his recruit was still there. To her credit – there had been a dozen opportunities for her to slip away – Flora was still doggedly in pursuit, albeit slightly out of breath. Duncan paused for a moment to allow her to catch up, seeing her mouth open in a query.

"What's an ill-gotten gain?" she asked the moment that their paces fell into synchrony.

The Warden-Commander inwardly chastised himself for letting his own personal disillusionment with the Chantry show through. He paused for a moment, thinking on how best to respond.

"You know how the Chantry demands  _tithes_ and  _donations_ from the people? And how it is customary to bequest them money in the will? And how one can purchase the Maker's forgiveness for almost any crime?"

Flora blinked at him, her pale grey eyes loaned temporary warmth by the nearby braziers.

"Mm," she said after a moment, doubtfully. Duncan persisted, suddenly wanting his young recruit to see the situation from his own seasoned perspective.

"Well, do you think that the Maker desires coin? That one must  _purchase_ a place at His side?"

Flora thought to herself, a faint crease forming across her pale, youthful brow. The Warden-Commander had the oddest impulse to reach out with a thumb and smooth out the line; not wanting anything to mar the wholesome loveliness of her face.

"I suppose they've got to pay for their fancy churches and tall hats somehow," she said at last, without a trace of cynicism.

Duncan laughed, then bent down and pressed his lips to her forehead with sudden, spontaneous affection; careless of any disapproving Templar stares. Flora smiled up at him slightly bemusedly, but pleased that some of the earlier anger seemed to have drained away.

The chapel-tent was a canvas structure large enough to house two-dozen benches, or about sixty devotees. It contained all the paraphernalia usually found in a Chantry – the long, low altar, a stern-faced statue of Andraste, lanterns dangling from purpose-built frames. The floor was damp earth covered with rush matting and the remnants of the evening service's incense hung in the air. A trail of smudged ash against one canvas wall marked where the 'eternal' flame had been lit – after the first chapel-tent had burnt down, they no longer kept it smouldering reverently overnight.

Mother Rohesia was seated behind the altar on a small three-legged stool. Rather than purifying the relics – as the younger priestesses had insisted – she was busy counting the coins gathered from the evening collection. A pile of silver and copper stood to one side; almost a foot in height.

"A profitable evening, Rohesia?" Duncan observed sardonically, as Flora gazed at the scene with wide eyes.

The old woman – whose shrewdness had only been honed with her advanced years – returned Duncan's enquiry with a long, disdainful stare.

"I espied no Wardens in my congregation this evening, Rivaini," she called back, in a voice cobwebbed with age. "Have your men no sins to make amends for?"

Duncan snorted, reaching into his tunic to retrieve the crumpled pamphlet as he strode towards the altar. Rohesia's eyes – which peered out bright and sharp from a lattice of wrinkles – slid sideways to the anxious girl hurrying in the wake of the Warden-Commander.

"Ah, but perhaps you  _have_ brought me someone. Have you come to make confession, girl?"

"No," mumbled Flora, eyeing the stern, blank stare of Andraste.

"She's got nothing to confess," retorted Duncan, immediately. "But I have a few  _thoughts_  that I'd like to share."

Having reached the altar at the front of the chapel-tent, the Warden-Commander threw down the pamphlet as though it were some putrid Darkspawn remnant. Rohesia dropped her gaze to it, one steely grey eyebrow rising into her hairline.

"What's this?"

"Don't play the fool with me, Rohesia," snarled Duncan, coal-dark eyes flashing with sudden heat. "I've known you since your hat was half the height. What I want to know is – what the  _fuck_  is this sensationalist tripe doing floating around in my camp?"

Mother Rohesia let out a small, affected sigh; wholly disingenuous concern writ across her lined face.

"Oh, dear," she replied, not bothering to sound contrite. "Some of my junior priestesses are clearly a little  _too_ enthusiastic in their service to the Maker."

Duncan let out a wholly unamusedbark of laughter, the sound emerging rough from his throat.

"It's counterproductive, seditious and  _wholly_  unnecessary," he snapped back, the Rivaini accent burring the edge of the Highever intonation. "The mages are here as our allies. Their skills are  _vital_ for the defence of this fortress – indeed, for  _Ferelden_."

Rohesia nodded solemnly, and there was not a single shred of remorse evident on her features. Duncan, now fuming, cast an irate hand behind him.

"If not for  _this_ mage, you would have had an enraged ogre running amok in the camp this morning," he growled, dropping all pretence of civility. "Thanks to her magic, such a dire threat was thwarted."

 _Don't mention me!_ Flora thought in alarm, wondering if she should surreptitiously shuffle further behind her commander.  _I wish I could turn invisible. I would trade my ability to shield in a heartbeat._

**_!_ **

One of her spirits gave a chastising rumble and Flora mentally retracted this last wish.

Rohesia eyed the mage in question, a thoughtful smile tugging at the corner of her thin lips.

"This is the mage who stopped the ogre? Come forwards, child."

Flora lifted her chin – grateful for the natural solemnity of her features – and advanced towards the altar, letting the light from the lanterns spill across her face.

"What a pretty creature," the Chantry Mother observed, pale eyes sliding slyly towards Duncan. "Unusual to find such a charming flower blossoming in the rotted soil of Ostagar. An interesting accessory for you to sport when making your case, Commander. One wonders as to your  _motive."_

The gloomy Flora was unsure whether the priestess was being sarcastic or not. She managed to restrain herself from staring at her feet, focusing instead on the smudge of ash on the canvas backdrop.

"This shit stops now," Duncan retorted, in no mood for this sly political creature's games. "If I hear of  _one more_ pamphlet being distributed about the camp, I'll revoke your privileges of residence."

This had the desired effect of ruffling Mother Rohesia's feathers. She bristled, nostrils flaring; slender, be-ringed fingers tightened momentarily.

"You don't have the authority to expel us," she hissed back, defiantly. "You aren't the sole commander here."

"And when was the last time you saw the king at a Chantry service?" retorted Duncan, quick as a viper. "Don't be so sure of  _his_ support. General Mac Tir already views your presence as a distraction."

Tension cracked in the air, palpable and dangerous as lightning. The Warden-Commander and Chantry Mother stared one another down; his gaze dark and implacable, hers prickling with anger. The former held his stare the longest, and the priestess looked away with a curling lip.

"What am I supposed to do with those pamphlets already created?" she muttered, resentment infusing each word.

Duncan snorted without humour, then reached forwards and crumpled the pamphlet unceremoniously in a broad, powerful fist.

"I suggest you relocate them to the latrines," he suggested, bluntly. "They'll serve a useful purpose there, at least."

The Chantry Mother looked as though she was about to hiss something wholly impious; just managing to restrain herself. Each movement abrupt and fuelled by irritation, she gathered the coins back into their pouches and dropped them on the offerings tray with a muffled clatter. Adjusting the angle of her tall white hat before hoisting the tray into the air, she rounded the end of the altar with chin held high.

"I suggest you stay for a while and contemplate your sins, Warden-Commander," she suggested pointedly, the words accompanied with an icy stare.

"Or do so on behalf of your Order. It's been a while since I've seen the silver gryphon in my congregation."

Duncan let out a grunt, not bothering to dignify the old woman's comment with a more substantial response. With that parting remark the priestess took her leave, gliding down the central aisle between the benches and ducking out of the chapel-tent with a disgruntled huff.

The Warden-Commander exhaled, glancing briefly towards the ambiguous face of Andraste before turning to his young recruit. Flora was shifting from foot to foot, chewing anxiously on an already-gnawed thumbnail.

"What did the pamphlet say?" she asked after a moment, the trepidation obvious in her voice. "About us? It was bad?"

 _Us_ was clearly in reference to  _mages._ Duncan paused for a moment, thinking on how best to phrase his response.

"The Chantry sees only the danger, and not the benefit of magic," he replied eventually, one shoulder rising in a wry shrug. "They are fools. Whichever of my ancestors helped to defend Rivain from their attempted crusades, I am grateful to him. Or to her. My people embrace the potential that magic offers. Look at how useful your shield was in defending our camp this morning."

Flora turned her face towards the lantern, amber warmth flickering across her finely hewn features. Traces of incense – heady and fragrant – still drifted within the canvas walls and she took a deep breath, filling her lungs with scented air. The lateness of the hour, the exotic musk of incense, the gilded gleam of lantern-light against the canvas; all combined to put her in a strange, indolent mood.

"The priestess would probably say that the ogre was made by the Maker to punish us for our sins," she whispered, rolling her eyes solemnly in Duncan's direction. The pale grey of her irises were loaned temporary illumination by the lanterns; they gleamed the same soft gold as the magic that streamed from her lips whenever she bowed her head to heal.

Duncan reached out and captured Flora's hand, gripping the slender, delicate lengths of her fingers. He brought her wrist towards his mouth and she thought for a moment that he was going to kiss her knuckles. Instead, he let her fingertips stray over his lips as he spoke; brushing against them with each throaty word uttered.

"This hand was made by the Maker," he murmured, and there was more kindness in his tone than she had ever heard emerging from his throat before. "He created you to be exactly as you are,  _amira."_

Flora looked up at him, the soft dusting of freckles across her nose faintly visible in the lantern-light. The thick skeins of crimson fell over her shoulders like spilled Antivan port-wine; and her lips were plush and pink, and slightly parted.

 _The greatest part of my life has been spent in blood-soaked shadow,_ Duncan thought to himself incoherently as he stared down at her.  _In the back alleys and low parts of cities, and then in the vilest reaches of the Deep Roads, knee-deep in blood and mud and shit. I've seen hundreds of men die in agony before me; and put dozens more out of their misery by my own hand. I've killed men who begged me to spare them._

_Surely the Maker has put this girl in my path as some recompense._

"You're so fucking beautiful," he said at last, hoarse and helpless. "Andraste Herself couldn't hold a candle to you."

The soft grey eyes widened a fraction, the full mouth parted in mild reprobation.

"That's blasphemous," she whispered, then bit her lip in shy delight at such a compliment from her lover. "But thank you."

There was no humour in the curve of the Rivaini's mouth; just a potent, provocative promise.

"Not as blasphemous as what I'm about to do to you,  _qalbi,"_ he murmured, eyes dropping to the small swells of her breasts thrust up against their linen confines. "Take off your clothes."


	43. In the Chantry Tent

Flora hesitated for the briefest of moments. They were in the Chantry's chapel-tent, right in the centre of what was colloquially known as  _Maker's Mount._ The terrace around them was usually swarming with Templars, and - even though the hour was late - there were sure to be some Chantry soldiers on patrol. But Duncan's dark, unblinking stare was strangely intoxicating; his pupils dilated until only a fraction of rich brown iris was visible.

She reached up and began to unfasten her blouse, fingers swiftly nudging the buttons from their linen homes. The Warden-Commander made a throaty sound of approval, drinking in the pert, creamy breasts. They tilted upwards as though offering themselves to him, the nipples the same dusky pink as her full, sulky mouth.

Duncan reached out to push stray ropes of crimson back over her shoulders, not wanting anything to obscure such a glorious view. It took a great deal of willpower not to cup the high swells of flesh in greedy palms; they seemed sculpted perfectly to fit the contours of his hands.

"Don't stop," he murmured, the instruction emerging thick with lust. "Show me that pretty slit between your legs."

She went pink and smiled shyly up at him, fingers dropping to the waistband of her breeches. This time, she lingered over the unfastening – each button pushed measuredly free, the material inching languid down her thighs.

"Don't tease me," he growled, impatient as the plump ripeness of her pubic mound was gradually revealed. "Or I'll put you over my knee right now and spank that tight ass until you squeal."

Flora, who immensely enjoyed having her commander palm her bottom, let out an inadvertent squeak of excitement. Duncan smiled, feeling his mouth go dry as he glimpsed the rich pink of her folds nestled between her legs.

"Rest assured,  _qalbi,"_ he promised, hoarse with desire. "I'll be paddling that rear later once you tell me all about how the general enjoyed your body."

Flora blushed, feeling an electric jolt of pleasure as she recalled riding Loghain like a little wild creature; head back and wailing. The trousers slithered around her ankles and the Warden-Commander helped her to step out of them; a low chuckle emerging from his throat. Her boots were next to come off, discarded casually in the centre aisle.

Then she was naked before him in the middle of the chapel-tent, the lantern-light illuminating the creamy flesh of her body. Duncan let the tip of his tongue moisten his dry mouth as he stared at her; cock demanding to be released from the tight constrictions of the leather.

"You drive me to distraction," he said at last, with a slight shake of the head. "I've the weight of Ferelden across my shoulders and all I think about is pressing you into a mattress."

He reached out to draw a finger through her folds, savouring the hungry, clinging warmth of her flesh. When he withdrew, the fingertip came away glistening and wet. Duncan brought her arousal to his lips, savouring the sweet taste with a soft, barely audible groan.

"Come," he said thickly, gripping her fingers and drawing her in his wake. "Let's sit you down."

The Warden-Commander led her over to one of the wooden pews on the side of the chapel-tent; a high-backed wooden bench intended for a more prominent member of the congregation. He guided her to sit, then brought each of her small, naked feet up to rest on the back of the bench in front.

Flora let out a soft whimper of invitation, peering up at her greying lover through her eyelashes. Duncan had several delectable options available to him in this position; he could kneel between her parted thighs and begin to lap hungrily at her slick folds, or he could lift her legs around his waist and push his manhood inside. She closed her eyes, breathless with anticipation.

 _I saw him put a little vial of liquid inside his tunic,_ she remembered, suppressing a sudden squeak of delight.  _Maybe he's planning to take me from behind._

Earlier that evening Loghain been desperate to work his cock inside Flora's tiny pucker; salivating at the prospect of claiming the ass of Bryce Cousland's daughter. Flora had managed to resist giving in to temptation – for the most part. She had let him penetrate her with an oiled finger, which soon led to his cockhead being nudged insistently between her buttocks. Finally, she had allowed him to push inside one exquisite inch; both of them letting out hoarse sighs of pleasure. The general had fucked her little ass with just the tip of his oiled cock; gritting his teeth with the efforts of restraint. Finally, Loghain had not been able to hold himself back: he parted Flora's buttocks wide and prepared to penetrate her fully. As Flora felt the general's cock nestle deeper, she allowed herself several moments to savour the sensation of his thick, veiny inches - then wriggled away with an embarrassed giggle. Loghain had put her over his knee and spanked her ripe, naked bottom as punishment, which Flora had also said greatly enjoyed.

Now, alone in the chapel-tent with her commander, Flora closed her eyes in breathless anticipation. To her delight, she then heard the unmistakable sound of a vial being uncorked. She wondered if she should bend over the pew instead of sitting in it, presenting her pert buttocks to Duncan at a far more convenient angle.

_He likes me to bend over and hold myself apart for him._

Instead, to Flora's surprise, she felt the liquid dribbling onto her pubic mound; trailing over the plump flesh and into the crease of her folds. The next moment, strong fingertips began to massage the oil into her skin with firm, experienced strokes. Flora peered down in wide-eyed surprise as Duncan's thumb swirled about the soft, strawberry wisps covering her mound; his fingers worked the oil diligently around her folds.

Soon, her entire cunt was oiled and glistening; a sight so wantonly provocative that Duncan had to loosen his trousers to release a painfully restricted cock.

"Fuck," he breathed, creating a loose fist around his length and allowing himself several delicious strokes.  _"Beautiful."_

_If anyone had told me a month ago that I'd be massaging oil into a gorgeous nineteen year old, I'd laugh them back to Denerim._

The Warden-Commander then had to bite back a laugh at Flora's expression; her soft grey eyes huge with confusion. Letting go of his aching shaft, he reached within his tunic and withdrew a small, glittering silverite blade no longer than a finger.

"We're going to shave all the hair from your sweet little cunt,  _qalbi,"_ he murmured, licking his lips shamelessly at the prospect.  _"Right here."_

Flora's eyes widened still further, her mouth forming a small  _O_  of astonishment.

"Oh!"

Duncan grinned up at her, a twisting half-smile that evoked memories of the rakish young man he must once have been. The gold earring glinted in the muted light of the lanterns; suspended from the wooden ceiling struts on long chains.

"Keep very still,  _amira."_

Flora held her breath, unsure or not whether she wanted to watch. Duncan sensed her apprehension, ducking his head to press a kiss to the firm flesh of her inner thigh. She reached down to touch the top of his head, running a finger in a tender circle over the greying crown. He paused for a moment as though about to speak, then took a deep and steadying breath instead; lowering the blade to the wisps of hair atop her mound.

The Warden-Commander was intimately familiar with blades; he had been comfortable with a hilt in his palm since his days as a foul mouthed street-urchin. Even now, five decades later, his weapon of choice was a curved, slender sword; a tool of fierce, glittering precision. This was also not the first time he had performed such an act on a woman – though admittedly, he had never done it on a girl thirty years his junior.

Flora gazed down at him, wide-eyed as though watching an instructor at the Circle perform some intricate experiment; her fascination was oddly endearing. Duncan found himself interrupting the deft motions of his wrist to return her curious stare with a smile, a fond glance, and eventually a wry chuckle.

" _Qalbi,_ you are watching me close as a Mabari eyes unattended meat."

Roses blossomed on Flora's cheeks, but she returned his smile shyly.

"I've never been in this situation before," she breathed, eyeing the emerging peachy flesh between her legs.

"Hm?"

" _Bald."_

Duncan laughed, then remembered the importance of discretion – bearing in mind their location. The chapel-tent had performed its final service for the evening, but it was surrounded by a hive of tents inhabited by members of the Chantry. Smiling to himself, he reached down and held her folds gently to one side with a callused thumb, letting the blade caress the contour of her pubic bone until it was as smooth as milk.

As the Warden-Commander worked, he found himself humming a newly-remembered tune from his youth; a Rivaini folk-melody that emerged like a polished stone from the murk of his taint-infused memory. The attentions of Flora's miraculous mouth over the past few weeks had caused many of these long-lost recollections to resurface: fragments of conversations, the faces of forgotten acquaintances. Corners of his mind corroded by the Blight had been infused with new vigour, like a spring breeze blowing the stagnant air from a locked chamber.

Flora leaned her head back against the pew, lulled into a peculiar lethargy by the faint remnants of incense, the gilded lantern-light, the foreign cadences of the folk-tune and the soft purr of the blade. The downy wine-red curls fell away effortlessly, revealing smooth and even skin below.

Every so often, he would tap gently at her thigh in a voiceless request; she would obediently bend it a little wider to allow him to reach each crevasse and crease. Irrationally paranoid of nicking the unblemished flesh, Duncan used enough oil to keep the blade gliding effortlessly over the contours of her mound.

Finally, the Warden-Commander set down the blade and surveyed his work; reaching into his tunic to retrieve his water-pouch. Its liquid contents had been warmed from his body heat , so there was no unpleasant shock for his  _qalbi_ when he poured it over her folds, rinsing off the remnants of the oil.

"There we go, sweeting," Duncan murmured, admiring the plump, fleshy mound that was now on full display. "Ah, Maker – look at that - fucking beautiful."

He inhaled unsteadily, reaching out to part the soft folds with his thumb. The absence of hair emphasised the fleshy pink within, like the inside of some exotic fruit. The neat button of her clitoris nestled at the apex, tiny and plump. Further down lay the indent of her entrance, the hint of nestled shadow inexplicably tempting. Unable to resist, Duncan licked his forefinger and pushed it gently inside; savouring both her muffled gasp and the slick sound of arousal. He fingered her lazily for several moments; she whimpered and pushed herself urgently against him.

"Lusty little creature," he murmured, amused. "What a silky cunt you've got."

The Warden-Commander withdrew his finger, and watched – transfixed – as hot rivulets of arousal followed in its wake, seeping between her folds. Flora reached down with purposeful intent, swirled her fingers in her own desire and began to spread it over the soft, velvet contours. As she coated her pearl of pleasure with a delicate fingertip she let out an inadvertent squeak, then put a hand over her mouth as she remembered the importance of keeping quieter.

A throaty, helpless sound escaped Duncan's throat as she withdrew her hand, his eyes glued to the glistening, hairless peach folds. The attentions of her finger had left them slightly parted, just enough to glimpse the deep, fleshy pink nestled within. The invitation was wordless and blatant:  _I'm ready for you._

Without taking his eyes from Flora's luscious mound, the Warden-Commander dropped to his knees before the bench. He pulled each of her bare legs over his shoulders, pressing a soft kiss to her inner thigh as he did so. If Duncan had been a more patient man, he would have lavished more time on swirling his tongue over the skin, kissed her in slow, teasing, ever-nearing patterns.

But Duncan was  _not_  a patient man; he was a man desperate to suckle on the plump ripeness of his young lover's mound. With a low growl of relief, he nestled his face between her thighs and began to feast upon her; lips and tongue greedily claiming the sweet manifestation of her arousal.

Flora found herself slumping back against the hard wood of the pew; her mouth opening and closing in gasps of helpless pleasure. Duncan's mouth worked her little cunt like a lover's kiss; his tongue exploring each intimate crease with joyful enthusiasm. He parted her folds and licked long stripes between them; fixed his lips around her clitoris and suckled gently; each lewd caress interspersed with a tender kiss pressed to her shaven mound.

Duncan, mildly addicted to the nectar produced between his lover's thighs, had worked out ways in which he could coax out even more sweetness. Flora liked her little pearl to be pinched hard between finger and thumb; she loved her whole cunt being spanked gently with an open palm. He teased out her first climax by parting her folds wide and flicking the tip of his tongue with gentle, merciless delicacy over the exposed button of her clitoris. The Warden-Commander was rewarded with some of the sweetest little gasps he had ever heard, accompanied by flood of more delicious heat. While Duncan greedily lapped up each precious, Flora tried to catch her breath. The strength of the orgasm had brought tears to her eyes; her heart throbbed so hard behind her ribcage that she thought it might escape her chest.

Once the Rivaini had finished he looked up at her, shifting slightly against the rush matting that provided some protection from the damp earth. Flora had her head tipped back against the pew, eyes closed and lips parted in unsteady inhalation. A pulse throbbed hard within her exposed throat, and he could see the flush of recent climax spread across her cheeks. A drop of sweat trickled in a fine rivulet between the pert handfuls of her breasts.

" _Qalbi,"_ he murmured, licking his lips to savour the lingering taste of  _her._ "You are delicious."

Flora let her head drop forward, passive and lovely as a doll's; several tendrils of crimson snaking loose over her shoulders. Without speaking, she reached down and let her fingers brush over the top of her commander's greying crown; which had once sported hair as black as polished jet. Her touch was light and purposeful, her thumb wandered around his ear before skating over the golden earring.

Duncan found himself holding his breath, for no rational reason other than he did not want to do anything that might stop her. Flora's fingers dropped to his face and she cupped his cheek tenderly against her palm, admiring the contrast of rich olive with her own creamy flesh. While her thumb traced the strong outline of the jaw beneath the neatly-trimmed beard, her grey eyes settled thoughtfully on his; large and luminous in the candlelight.

Duncan did not remember half-rising to his knees, nor reaching out to pull Flora's bare hips against his own. She put her arms immediately around his neck, her fingers curling against his shoulder-blades. In a heartbeat their mouths were working together in a fluent, effortless rhythm. Their lips moved with joyful desire, parting and pressing, suckling and nibbling; all driven by an undercurrent of naked, mutual lust.

 _Her mouth was made to fit mine,_ he thought, feverishly.  _Look how well her lips mould against me. Like they shouldn't be parted. Just like how her little breasts rest neatly in my palms, and how my cock fills her cunt -_

A low, animalistic groan echoed around the tent, throaty and raw. To the Warden-Commander's surprise, he realised that the sound was coming from his own throat; that he was  _moaning_ into the kiss like a lust-struck youth.

 _Like a love-struck youth,_ Duncan's subconscious corrected him, grimly.

_Shit._

When they parted – reluctantly – she smiled dazedly at him; her eyes even brighter than they had been before.

Duncan opened his mouth in a moment of blind, reckless abandonment. For a single heartbeat he felt as though he were poised on the edge of a precipice, toes over the edge; a fatal but glorious void opening up below him.

"Flora, I - "

At the last moment – before he was able to step off that blissful, irrevocable cliff – cold reason pulled him back; two decades as Warden-Commander and the burden of Ostagar pulling hard on the yoke of his impulse.

" – I need to taste that gorgeous little cunt again," he murmured instead, a maelstrom of conflicting emotion tangling within him. "Open your legs, baby."

Flora, guileless as ever, smiled and did as instructed. Duncan lowered himself to his knees and nestled his face between her thighs. He took a moment to inhale the sweet, excited heat – his  _qalbi_ loved being kissed – before parting her folds with his tongue and licking a long stripe down the length of her cleft.

Before long, his recruit was panting and helpless beneath his expert ministrations; her fingers wandering blindly over his shoulders as she clutched at him. As though trying to compensate for his cowardice, Duncan called upon each technique he had learnt over decades of lovemaking; every precious scrap of knowledge gleaned about feminine anatomy; his purpose to coax as many exhilarating climaxes as possible from his young lover.

He drew the first climax from her by massaging her tender pearl between finger and thumb, admiring how it pulsed frantically in response to his attentions. When she was on the verge of orgasm, quivering and mouthing on the pew before him, he pressed the cold silver of his commander's ring against the flushed little nub. The delicious, titivating contrast was too much for Flora to handle. She gasped and came apart for him, shuddering so hard that she knocked her head against the pew.

"Careful,  _amira_ ," he murmured with both amusement and concern; watching her like a hawk as she pulled a little face. "Maker, I can't wait to take you back to the tent and fuck you into the mattress all night."

Smiling dazedly, Flora reached out a trembling hand and let her palm rest atop her lover's greying head. She shifted herself against the pew – the wood now slippery from sweat and arousal - then drew him back between her legs.

"Once more," she whispered, sweet and earnest. "I like it _."_

Duncan let out a low growl, biting softly at her inner thigh as she quivered with blatant anticipation.

"You love having your pretty cunt kissed, don't you?"

Flora nodded, her eyes half-closed and her cheeks flushed with anticipation. The Warden-Commander felt a surge of fondness, accompanied by a distinct undercurrent of satisfaction.

_What a passionate creature this girl is, beneath all the northern stoicism._

He pressed his lips to the smooth, plump curve of her mound, savouring the pulse of unimpeded heat. A faint drizzle pattered against the canvas roof but Duncan barely noticed it; indeed, their illicit surroundings were now hardly registering at all. He was vaguely aware that they were within the Chantry's chapel-tent - surrounded by pews, candles, prayer-banners and the usual detritus – but his main concern was his lover's pleasure.

Once more his tongue began to explore the warm, welcoming folds nestled between Flora's thighs; lapping with deliberate languor as she whimpered. As he fixed his lips around her swollen pearl and began to suckle hard, she let out a strangled cry, arching her back and digging her fingers into his shoulders

"It's too much," she begged, rocking herself even more urgently against his hungry tongue. "Please, please- "

There was a savage curl to Duncan's smile as he gripped her thighs in place, working her even more vigorously with his tongue. She was squirming against him now, a prisoner to the sheer bliss coaxed forth by her older lover. The Warden-Commander's cock stood up stiff against his leather-clad stomach; pulsing in readiness.

Just then, there came the sound of voices outside the tent; muffled but clearly coming closer. They held the officious tone of Chantry brothers – the male brethren of the church who were not allowed to hold religious position.

"We can use the spare robes for tomorrow's service," came one grumbling voice. "But the finest vestments are covered in filth! For the love of Andraste, this Maker-forsaken place is crawling with dirt and vileness."

"Brother Theodric!" came the chiding response. "You know better than to use such language in the Maker's domain. This chapel-tent should be treated with the same reverence as the Grand Chantry in Denerim!"

The first lay-brother gave a snort of derision. There followed a series of grunts and a scraping of wood; as one of the large chests kept in the rear of the chapel-tent was hauled out.

"Too many blasted hats in here," complained the first voice again, receiving an even sharper reprimand from his companion.

Flora had gone rigid with alarm; eyes widening. In most circumstances, she did not mind the presence of others – she had suckled on Duncan as he signed messages offered by a blushing clerk, ridden him without interruption when Loghain Mac Tir had barged into their tent unannounced; she and her lover had been caught a half-dozen times in  _extremely_  compromising positions by other senior wardens. Each time Duncan had laughed it off and continued leisurely with whatever he had been doing before the interruption occurred.

 _This is different!_ Flora thought to herself in alarm, eyes as wide as saucers.  _This is a Chantry tent! Those are lay-brothers! What if the sight scars their holy eyes? What if they go blind?!_

Too preoccupied with panicking, Flora did not noticed herself being pulled gently down the bench; nor that her pelvis was being brought into

alignment with Duncan's waist. She  _did_ notice the hand settling over her mouth – just in time to stifle the squeak of surprise prompted by the nudge of a dripping cockhead between her folds.

The Warden-Commander flashed his young lover a sly smile, eyes fixated on the delicious sight of his shaft penetrating the plump, hairless folds. Unable to resist, he took himself in hand and withdrew, only to push inside once again; relishing the soft, yearning wetness of her slit.

" _I couldn't resist, qalbi,"_ he leaned forward to murmur in her ear.  _"Your little cunt was begging for some cock. Hear how desperate she is?"_

Flora let out a strangled gasp of agreement, muffled by her commander's palm.

To compensate for the lack of speed – to take his recruit with the usual vigour would have resulted in far too noisy a rhythm – the kneeling Duncan fucked into her slow and deep, rolling his hips in languid motion. Flora, slumped against the pew with her legs bent up on his shoulders, was caught between alarm and arousal.

"I could spent all day inside you," he breathed in her ear, savouring her desperate attempts to keep quiet. "You're a terminal distraction,  _qalbi."_

If either one of the lay brothers had glanced towards the front benches, they would have seen two small, naked feet protruding into the air; emerging from behind a high-backed pew that shook in an age-old rhythm. If the drizzle had abated its overhead patter, they would have heard a percussive slap of sweaty flesh, a moment's investigation would have revealed a slow and sensual rut between the Commander of the Grey and his gifted young recruit. The teenager was a little nervous – she kept biting back her moans and muffling her gasps with her forearm – but her lover soothed her with strokes and subtle kisses. Even as he reassured her, Duncan kept up the deep roll of his hips; savouring the tight, slick clutch of her cunt around his cock.

The Chantry lay-brothers made a timely exit; just as the sound of the illicit rutting in the second pew became audible. Both Wardens were now panting too loudly to muffle, the slap of flesh too wet and lewd to disguise. Flora had her head tilted to her chest, watching with heavy-lidded fascination as her mentor's broad, dark shaft plunged in and out between her creamy folds; the act of penetration made gloriously visual with the lack of hair. The sight was so unashamedly erotic that she felt her core constrict with sudden pleasure; satisfaction rippling outwards in languid waves.

The Warden-Commander realised that his recruit was climaxing beneath him and let out a soft growl of encouragement; driving his hips forward with renewed vigour. He fucked her hard into the bench, the muscled ovals of his tawny buttocks clenching and loosening with each stroke. At last, Duncan could restrain himself no longer and released several spurts of hot seed; timing it to coincide with the deepest point of the stroke. He let out a strangled curse in his native tongue, fingers clenching into her thighs hard enough to leave bruises, hips juddering with the force of his spending.

As the strength drained from him, rapid as wine flowing from a spilt jug, Duncan slumped forward and let his head rest on Flora's shoulder. She reached up to cup the back of his neck with her small, clever fingers; letting him feel the race of her own heart within her ribs. He exhaled, long and unsteady, then breathed in the scent of her: sweat, smoke and – strangely enough –  _salt._

"How do you smell like the sea when we are a hundred miles from the coast,  _amira?"_ he asked her, once he had reclaimed some part of his breath and composure.

"Dunno," she replied earnestly, letting her fingers wandering over the breadth of his muscled shoulders. The taut flesh was interrupted by contusions and ragged streaks of raised flesh; the inheritance of a lifetime spent fighting.

"Is it a bad smell?" she continued, mildly curious.

"Not at all,  _qalbi._ It reminds me of when I spent some time in my home as a youth – we travelled by boat, and the salt in the air curdled your tongue with its potency."

 _Another memory resurrected by her miraculous breath,_ the Warden-Commander thought to himself, wonderingly _. I ought to write to Weisshaupt about her._

_But I won't. I won't run the risk of them summoning her._

This was not for wholly selfish reasons. Duncan had promised to oversee his new mage's welfare when taking her from the Circle, aware that she was younger and less experienced than his normal choice of recruits. He did not believe that sending her off to the cold mountain of Weisshaupt – into the custody of the shadowy figures that ran the Council of the Grey – was in her best interests.

He felt Flora press her sweaty face against his shoulder, bitten fingernails nudging gently into his arm as she clung to him.

"I can't believe we just did that in a  _Chantry,"_ she breathed, awed and impressed at their daring. "I feel as saucy as a… a… a lobster at a shellfish party."

She lifted her head and smiled up at him; shy and delighted. Duncan had no idea what the fuck his young lover was talking about, but he  _did_ know that he would not be writing to Weisshaupt any time soon.


	44. Goodnight

The bell was just striking the midnight hour as the Warden-Commander and his recruit made a discreet exit from the Chantry's chapel-tent. Duncan strode confidently ahead, relaxed and utterly nonchalant. Flora, on the other hand, was fearful of accusatory eyes and knowing stares; of whispers or even outright condemnation. She was not particularly religious, but she was frightened of the Chantry and the power that it wielded – especially the sort of retribution that it might wreak on her own vulnerable self.

 _Duncan is a powerful man and the leader of the Wardens,_ Flora thought anxiously as she followed in her commander's footsteps.  _They wouldn't dare do anything to him._

_I'm just a mage. I have no status and no power. What if they accuse me of being corrupt?_

_Or… or possessed? Possessed by some lust demon? They'd have an excuse to Tranquilise me!_

By the time that they reached the crumbling steps that led down from the Chantry terrace, Flora had worked herself up into such a state that even Duncan noticed. Typically, the Warden-Commander had not spared a thought to the morality of their act. He had not  _planned_  to actually have sex with his recruit within the chapel-tent, but it had happened regardless and he was not unduly worried about it. The Rivaini had enjoyed shaving and then tasting his young lover's ripe mound; it was  _unreasonable_  to expect that he would not then want to enter her.

 _What man so inclined would be able to resist?_ he thought to himself, reasonably.  _Her little cunt was slick with excitement._

However, as he paused in a patch of shadow for Flora to catch up – inwardly cursing the thin autumnal drizzle - he caught a glimpse of huge, anxious grey eyes; set like silvered saucers against a face that was a shade paler than usual. Duncan slowed beside a derelict colonnade of grey stone – once a grand example of Tevinter architecture, now only a series of half-toppled pillars – and drew his recruit into the puddle of warm light spilling from a nearby brazier.

" _Qalbi,_ you look as though you've seen a ghost."

"No, no –  _whaaa-_ are there  _ghosts_ here?" She shot him a look of even greater alarm.

He shook his head as a soothing rumble escaped from his throat; cupping Flora's face between his calloused palms and admiring the way that his fingers framed her full-lipped beauty.

"No ghosts, dove. What's the cause of this unhappy face?"

"I'm worried that we'll get into trouble," she whispered, her cheeks wet with fine, cool drizzle. "And the Chantry will be cross."

Duncan smiled down at her, brushing away the dampness from her eyelashes with a broad, callused thumb. She tilted her face against his hand so her cheek nestled in his palm, her anxious gaze not leaving his own dark stare.

"Come now,  _amira,"_ he murmured, his voice gentle in a way that nobody else had witnessed in a long time. "Did you give your consent?"

Flora nodded bashfully; she had readily welcomed his attentions.

"And you have reached your majority?"

After a moment Flora nodded once more: she had never been taught to count, but was reasonably sure that she was somewhere between seventeen and nineteen years of age.

"Yes."

"And did you enjoy what we did together?"

Flora blushed; there could be no denying that she had enjoyed it. After all, she  _had_  climaxed three times in the span of less than a half-candle. The third time Duncan had needed to press his hand over her mouth as she moaned low and throaty against his palm.

Duncan smiled: his lover's blushes were answer enough. He ducked to press tender lips first to her forehead, then – daringly – to her lips. For several long seconds, the Warden-Commander kissed his young recruit out in the open; with no masking pillars or obfuscating canvas to hide them. Despite the shadow and the veil of night, it was a bold move.

 _But one worth it,_ the Rivaini thought to himself as they parted; smiling down at his breathless, starry-eyed recruit.

"Don't worry about the Chantry. Come on,  _qalbi."_

They returned to the terrace ascribed to the Wardens soon afterwards; just as the watchmen rang the bell marking midnight. Unlike the neat rows of military tents, the Warden accommodation was clustered around campfires in haphazard groupings. The campfires themselves had mostly died out, but a few – near the tents belonging to the senior wardens – still burned. Duncan could just about discern the silhouettes of some of his oldest comrades perched about the flames, bottle in hand. The older Wardens often had trouble sleeping; their minds plagued by strange, subterranean whispers and troubling visions.

 _Unless you enjoy the rejuvenating kiss of a spirit healer on a regular basis,_ Duncan thought to himself with a brief flash of guilt.  _I've not slept so soundly in twenty summers, and I should be only a few years from my Calling._

They paused before the tent belonging to Duncan, which was only a fraction larger than those claimed by his peers. It was marked by an additional banner beside the door, and a guard half-asleep at the entrance.

" _Amira,"_ murmured Duncan, looking down at his own yawning recruit. "Are your needs sated for tonight, or do you desire anything more? My lips and my cock are ready to service you, little one."

Flora blushed at his crudeness even as she thought about his offer; listening to the pulse and rhythm of her own body.

_The general and I did spend several hours rutting earlier._

_And we've just been very intimate in the Chantry tent._

"Can I come in, just for a bit?" she whispered shyly, aware of the eavesdropping guard.

Two minutes later, Duncan stood inside the tent with a palm braced on the dresser; his head thrown back so that his greying ponytail brushed his shoulder-blades. His teeth were gritted, his trousers thrust down around lean, muscular thighs with such haste that the lacing had snapped. Short, animal grunts escaped his throat, the hollow of which was already beading with sweat.

"Fuck – baby – good girl- "

The Warden-Commander did not know whether to keep his eyes closed or open. To close them was to focus fully on the delicious pangs of pleasure shooting outwards from his core, clouding his mind and weakening his knees. To open them was to feast on the sight of a beautiful girl on her knees before him, devouring his cock between eager lips. The sight of Flora's full, sulky mouth stretched around his shaft was one that Duncan wanted to scribe indelibly into his memory.

She had dropped to her knees before the tent flap had even swung shut; the guard had gained a tantalising glimpse of her wetting her lips in preparation. Duncan had snapped the lace on his breeches in his eagerness to unfasten them, she had shuffled herself forward with mouth expectantly open.

His other hand rested on Flora's skull, fingers curling into the loose crimson as she bobbed her head back and forth. His cockhead bounced against the back of her throat as she suckled enthusiastically; her lips and tongue massaging the hard, pulsing flesh. In the privacy of his tent, there was no need to be subtle– unlike when she'd pleasured him behind a training dummy on the sparring field a few days prior; on her knees in the mud lapping quietly at his cock.

Now, she sucked at her commander with loud, unashamed delight; saliva running down her chin as she feasted on him. Not wanting to neglect his sac, she caressed the meaty swell with loving fingertips. Duncan – a Rivaini, used to hot temperatures- was sweating openly; his mouth contorted in a groan of utter pleasure.

Wanting it to last as long as possible, Flora let his cock slip from her mouth whenever she felt it twitch; pressing adoring kisses to his thighs and sac as his shaft throbbed against her cheek. The third time that she did this, Duncan let out a low growl. Gripping her head firmly in place, he guided his cock back between her lips; bending his knees in preparation for a final burst of vigour. A sound not quite human escaped his throat as he began to drive his hips forward; thrusting into her eager mouth as the muscle of his buttocks clenched.

He came with a shout, fingers clenching into her hair as his sac convulsed; shooting a half-dozen creamy spurts into his young lover's throat. She almost fell backwards in surprise; eyes widening as she tasted the unexpected warm saltiness.

The Warden-Commander took a few moments to recover, taking deep gulps of air as the sweat cooled on his forehead. Once he had regained some composure, he looked down then almost laughed out loud at the expression on Flora's face.

" _Amira,_ I apologise for giving you no warning. Here- " he offered her a tankard of ale. "Have some."

Flora took a gulp, grimacing as her body reflexively purified the alcohol into water, grain and yeast. The odd coagulation coated her tongue; she swallowed it with some difficulty.

"It's fine," she croaked, hastily replacing the tankard on the dresser. "I'm alright. Do you think there are really ghosts here?"

Duncan reached down, offering a palm to help her to her feet. Flora kept her fingers wrapped around his, her eyes part-curious and part-anxious in the half-shadow of the tent.

"Oh, I imagine so."

"You do?!"

"Well, Ostagar is ancient, and there's been countless battles fought here," the Warden-Commander replied easily, taking a long draw of the ale in the hope that it would calm his adrenaline. Once the initial glow of climax faded, the Rivaini tended to feel as though he could sprint up all four hundred steps of the Tower of Ishal – a side-effect of Flora's invigorating tongue.

_She's a clever girl, though she insists that it's not due to any particular talent of her own. I'd be fascinated to learn more about these spirits in the Fade who've taken such a liking to her._

_Ah, if only we were in Rivain. I know a half-dozen village elders who could make enquiries on the other side of the Veil._

Duncan was awoken from his reverie by the alarm on Flora's face. She was clearly horrified at the prospect of apparitions from various Ages, drifting mournfully about the terraces with spectral weapons in hand.

" _Qalbi,"_ he murmured, sitting down on the bunk and bending forward to unfasten his boots. "You can summon a barrier that can stop ogres, and you are afraid of ghosts?"

"Ghosts can get  _through_  barriers," Flora replied immediately, as though it were obvious.

Duncan laughed; mouth settling into a affectionate smile as he gazed up at the wide-eyed earnestness of his full-lipped recruit. With a pang, he realised that she was intending to return to the communal dormitory tent to sleep – she had not removed her shapeless woollen jacket.

 _It was unusual for her to wake in my arms this morning,_ he acknowledged, wistfully.  _And she deserves a good rest after the day she's had. If she spent the night in my bed, we wouldn't get much sleep._

"Come and sit,  _amira,"_ he murmured, spreading broad thighs expectantly. "I can't have you leaving me so tense."

Flora did not need any more encouragement. She trotted across the damp rush matting and perched on her commander's knee; winding her arm around his neck. He murmured something unintelligible against her shoulder – along the lines of  _good girl_ – and dropped a hand to her waistband. After a brief working of deft fingers, the buttons of the trousers were loosened enough to allow access.

"Your skin feels so fucking soft," Duncan murmured throatily, caressing her ripe mound with a tender thumb. "I'll keep this little cunt bald."

He squeezed the plump mound once more, before letting his fingers wander downwards. As he had anticipated, the vicarious thrill she received from taking him in her mouth had left her folds slick and ready.

"It would be a  _crime_ to not caress this little pearl,  _amira,"_  he continued in her ear, squeezing it gently between finger and thumb. "Do you like it when I do  _this?"_

Duncan interrupted the loving massage of the fleshy nub with a swift, firm pinch. She let out a guttural moan, tilting her hips upwards in blatant invitation. He grinned, teeth flashing white in the shadow, and let his fingers explore further. Every inch of her felt slick and warm; the plump folds begged to be fondled and the tiny indent of her slit invited probing. He gave her single finger and she whimpered, flashing him huge, imploring eyes.

"Please- please- "

Ready to oblige, he slid a second in alongside the first; relishing the wet, sucking sounds that emerged with each pump of his wrist. Flora leaned back against his chest, eyes closed and limp as a doll; focused only on the delicious sensations pulsing between her legs. Duncan tightened his grip on her and increased the speed of his fingering; sinking in to the second knuckle within her sweet and willing moans were almost enough to shatter the commander's restraint – it had taken a great deal of willpower not to pull his erect shaft from his breeches.

The Rivaini knew that she was near climax when she began to squirm, her naked rear slithering over his thigh as she dropped her head back. He began to pump his fingers with fresh vigour; his hand slick with her youthful arousal. His recruit began to let out ragged half-sobs of need, desperate for release.

"Come for me,  _qalbi,"_ he murmured, letting his thumb massage roughly around her throbbing clitoris, "Let me hear that pretty wail."

Shortly afterwards, not only the commander but also several of his senior wardens in neighbouring tents were rewarded with throaty cries of bliss. Her climax was drawn out over a full exquisite minute, extended by the Rivaini's expert caresses. No senior warden was ignorant as to the author of the cries – all had seen the solemn, grey-eyed girl at Duncan's side over the past few weeks. Most had glimpsed the commander's hand slide furtively down the back of the mage's breeches to fondle her buttocks; or had caught a glimpse of pert, pale breast as he had buttoned her shirt back up. A small few had noticed the bruised tenderness that manifested in their commander's dark gaze whenever he glanced over-casually in her direction.

There followed a few moments of murmured conversation; the commander's low rumble coming in response to his lover's soft, shy whisper. Flora had made a request that her mentor was delighted to fulfil; soon after, those senior wardens still awake were treated to the sound of a soaked little slit being gently spanked. Each time that Duncan's calloused palm made contact with the tender folds, the most indulgent wet sound echoed about the canvas. Soon after, the spanking was replaced with the unmistakable sound of furtive, eager rutting.

Some time later Duncan stood at the entrance to his tent,gazing down at his young lover as she prepared to make her way back to her own quarters. It was a dreary and unpleasant night; mist hung over the ancient fortress like a shroud, leaving clothing and canvas damp. Shadows swelled between the tents and behind the crumbled remnants of pillars. Looking down at a pink-faced Flora, the Warden-Commander had the sudden urge to escort her back to the dormitory tent. She made for a slight figure amidst the shadow, at only a handful of inches over five feet; and the untidy braid made her appear absurdly young.

"Shall I walk you to your tent,  _qalbi?"_ he offered, watching a flicker of surprise pass across her fine-hewn face.

"I'll be fine," she promised, smiling up at him. "I have a shield."

 _There's the slightest gap between her front teeth,_ Duncan noticed, absentmindedly.  _Sweet little creature._

"Alright then,  _amira._ I'll see you on the morrow."

Flora stood on her toes and kissed him impulsively on the cheek, resting her palm on his chest to stabilise herself.

"Goodnight. Don't let the weever fish bite!"


	45. Alistair's First Time

Flora made her way back through the Grey Warden encampment, weaving between the rows of canvas tents and avoiding the various detritus left strewn in the darkness. Under the command of the General, the army camp was kept in pristine condition – a single pot of sword-grease left open in the rain could warrant discipline – but the Commander of the Grey cared less about such trivia. As such, the young mage had to navigate stray bundles of rope, stacks of crates, and a plethora of empty bottles. The constant drizzle had extinguished many of the iron-bellied braziers, and the entire terrace was submerged in a blanket of dreary autumnal dampness.

Fortunately, Flora was her own light source and did not require the assistance of flame. She held up her hand like a lantern, using the rays of slender, brilliant light that streamed from beneath her ragged nails to illuminate her journey.

Unfortunately, having such did not save her from becoming distracted. On the final approach to her own dormitory tent, Flora caught a glimpse of an odd flicker from the corner of her eye; a pale fluttering in the breeze. Her mind immediately jumped to one terrifying conclusion:  _ghost!_

Abandoning caution, she fled down the terrace with a squawk of alarm; making it only a few metres before catching her foot in a guy rope. She went sprawling inelegantly face-first into the side of a nearby tent, colliding with wet canvas and wooden scaffold. The occupants of the tent let out a muffled curse, kicking out with a grumpy boot.

"Get on wi' ye!"

Flora, feeling her eye socket throb where it had collided with the pole, untangled her limbs from the canvas and picked herself up. A tremulous glance over her shoulder proved that the 'ghost' was merely a Grey Warden banner; the silver griffin flapping mournfully in response to the gusts of night air.

Gloomily – the warm aftermath of pleasure thoroughly drained – she trudged towards the final tent in the row. The rain exacerbated the mildewed smell of the canvas; though as a northerner, Flora barely noticed the presence of damp. She made sure to extinguish the glow from her fingers before ducking inside the entrance, not wanting to disconcert the other Wardens, who were already suspicious enough of the spirit healer in their midst.

The communal quarters housed another dozen of her brethren, who were snoring away on a motley collection of bunk beds, pallets and bedrolls. Each space was claimed by strewn personal possession – more bottles than books, the occasional hairbrush or shaving blades. Pictures and personal mementoes were scarce, most Wardens joined the Order because they wanted to  _escape_  their former lives rather than commemorate them. Eight bodies lay prostrate in their bunks; their snores echoing into the darkness. A select few tossed and turned – their sleep interrupted by strange, subterranean whispers.

When Flora had first arrived at Ostagar and been assigned to this tent, the other Wardens had not been happy about sharing sleeping accommodation with a mage so young and inexperienced. After several pointed comments about waking up next an  _abomination_ , Flora had taken her bedroll to the furthest corner of the tent in an effort to appease. Alistair, whom Duncan had charged with keeping an eye on this new recruit, had reluctantly abandoned his bunk and placed a bedroll alongside her own. It had taken a month before Alistair had stopped building up an artificial barrier of breastplates between them.

Such was the isolation of their little corner of the tent, Flora could not see if her brother-warden was present. Careful not to tread on anyone, she made her way across the damp matting. Halfway through, the young mage almost collided with the central tent pole – narrowly avoiding disaster, she ducked around it with her heart in her mouth. The thought of bringing down the entire tent on the dozing occupants made Flora's blood run cold in her veins.

Still quivering with alarm, she crept around a bunk occupied by a snoring dwarf and successfully avoided the final pitfall – a weapons rack that loomed almost the height of the canvas ceiling. Flora could just about see her own bedroll lying neatly in the shadowed corner, next to the meagre possessions she had brought from the Circle. Alongside her bedroll, she could see her brother-warden's pallet – and a long, bulky outline beneath a blanket. Alistair was on his side and facing the damp canvas wall; she could not tell if he were awake or asleep, but his shoulder-blade moved up and down in gentle, even rhythm.

Holding her breath in order to be as quiet as possible, Flora pulled off her shapeless woollen coat, hanging it up on the end of the weapon rack. Hoping that her balance would not fail her, she extracted each foot from a boot with painstaking care. Her breeches came next, inched down her thighs and over her knees. Finally, Flora stood triumphant in socks, smalls and shirt; delighted that she had managed to remain so silent.

Unfortunately, a stray whisper of wool from her coat – detached by the garment's removal – chose that moment to settle on the end of Flora's nose. She sneezed, the sound too loud and quick to stifle; prompting a chorus of groans and curses from her fellow Wardens.

"Ah, what's that? A bloody burglar?"

"Nah, it's the witch. She's got a cold."

"Thought she were meant to be a  _healer!"_

Flora had received four years of disparaging remarks from her peers at the Circle, so she was not overly affected by their ire. Taking the situation in her usual stoic stride, she lowered herself onto her bedroll and pulled the blanket up to her chin.

Beside her, the rhythm of Alistair's even breathing had stilled. Flora knew that he had woken; yet – for some reason – he had not acknowledged her. Instead, her long-limbed brother-warden had hunched his shoulders defensively, dropping the handsome, leonine head as though ashamed.

 _Why is he ignoring me?_ Flora wondered to herself, eyeing the defined muscles of Alistair's back, carved out beneath the shirt.  _Have I done something wrong?_

She summoned the memory of their encounter on the battlements earlier that evening, when she had taken him in her mouth for the first time. Alistair had seemed to enjoy the experience – in fact, he had taken command after a while, holding her head in place as he rocked himself between her eager lips. With unexpected, deep-seated dominance that had seemingly risen from nowhere, he had instructed her to open her shirt and push her breeches several inches down her thighs. An eager Flora had done as he requested, letting his eyes feast on her naked breasts. The drizzle had caused the hair on her pubic mound to form damp, dark red curls; which Alistair had leaned forwards to ruffle his fingers through.

 _Oh,_ she remembered then, her eyes widening in recollection.  _Afterwards, he ran away. Literally. He apologised and then fled off into the sunset._

_I think maybe he was embarrassed?_

Flora felt a twinge of genuine alarm at such a gloomy possibility. She did not want her brother-warden to feel self-conscious in the slightest; she had offered her mouth freely and without expectation of recompense.

"Alistair?" she whispered into the darkness, feeling the word reflected back towards her face by the solid wall of his shoulders. She knew that he had heard her by the sudden hitch in his breath, the slightest tilt of his head. Yet his whole demeanour reminded her of a chastised Mabari, hunched in a corner with its tail low and head hanging downwards.

Flora was not to know that her brother-warden was tormenting himself with comparisons to Duncan; whom he had witnessed making love with a finesse crafted by several decades worth of experience. All she knew was that her friend was unhappy, and that – as a naturally kind-hearted girl - she would not be able to sleep until he had been comforted.

She reached out with a finger and drew a circle on the hard muscle of Alistair's back. Then, struck by a sudden idea, she dotted her fingertip lightly to emulate two eyes, then a sad curve to represent an unhappy mouth. Alistair made no response, but she heard the breath catch in his throat. If Flora had been literate, she would have spelt out his name; since she could not, she traced a picture of a fish with a wide grin. The delicate sculpting of the scales drew a soft snort from her brother-warden, and he shifted slightly on the bedroll. Heartened by the acknowledgement, Flora began an ambitious, ill-advised attempt on the Kingstongue alphabet.

After several moments, Alistair's handsome, leonine head twisted to peer as best he could over his shoulder. The moonlight drained the olive and gold from his colouring, leaving the junior warden with the finely-sculpted features of a Tevinter statue.

"What are these meant to be?" he breathed, watching the focus embedded in her brow. "Ancient runes?"

"No," retorted an indignant Flora, then remembered their slumbering brethren and lowered her voice. "It's letters.  _Fereldan_ letters."

Alistair was not quite fast enough to stifle his snort of incredulity, receiving a glower from his year-younger sister-warden.

"Sorry," he said hastily, as she let out a petulant rumble. "I don't meant to make fun of you, I honestly don't. My penmanship is so bad that I may as well be illiterate."

Alistair rolled over to face her in a sudden impulsive movement. The moonlight filtering through the tattered canvas illuminated the finely hewn contour of his jaw, his skin a cool, gold-stubbled olive. Flora rested her own cheek against her folded coat – there were no pillows at Ostagar – and curved the corner of her mouth at him.

"Show me how you write  _Flora,"_ she whispered, careful not to arouse the tent's snoring occupants. "I've always wondered."

Alistair paused for a moment, then reached out and took her small hand, turning it so that it faced upwards. Keeping his eyes on her curious face, he dropped a callused fingertip to her palm and traced out the letter  _F._

"F," he said quietly, his finger lingering on her skin.  _"L, O, R, A. Flora."_

Flora peered across at him, her lips slightly parted as she contemplated what he had shown her. Her pale eyes, grey as the sky after rainfall, moved thoughtfully over his face.

"Spell your name," she requested, after a moment. "Please."

He duly did as requested, tracing out  _Alistair_ on the warm, dry skin of her palm. It did not occur to the former Templar to be afraid of the hand of a mage in such close proximity to his own unarmed self. Somewhere in the past few weeks, Alistair had lost the wariness he had once possessed around his sister-warden; a decade of Chantry teachings abandoned.

"Your name starts with the same shape that my name ends in," Flora whispered, huge-eyed with fascination. "That's  _amazing."_

He smiled at her awe, not wanting to release her hand back into the shadows.

" _A._ The first letter of the Kingstongue alphabet."

"Should my name  _start_  with the first letter, too?" she replied, suddenly anxious. "Did my parents name me wrongly? Am I  _backwards?"_

Alistair bit back a grin, instead replying with equal gravity.

"Of course they didn't name you wrongly," he said, admiring the faint dusting of freckles across her nose. These last vestiges of sun were beginning to fade – though he soon realised that these were noproducts of summer, but the result of weeks spent outdoors after years of confinement in the Circle. "Your name backwards would be  _–_ uh –  _Arolf."_

She beamed at him through the darkness, enchanted with this mangling of her name.

"Arolf! What would yours be?"

"Uh," he replied, thinking. "Riatsila."

" _Riatsila!"_

There was a muttered curse from one of their dozing brethren. Unabashed, Flora leaned forward impulsively and put her arm about her brother-warden's shoulder, embracing him with clumsy affection. She then kissed him impulsively on the cheek, in a gesture that was peculiarly innocent considering what she had done to him up on the ramparts.

Equally spontaneous, Alistair reached out to slide an arm around her back; pulling her onto his chest. His heart beat fast as he did so, wondering if this was  _too much_. She had taken his cock in his mouth and he had thrust his fingers inside her until she cried out; yet this embrace on a mouldering bedroll in a shadowed corner of the Warden tent seemed somehow even  _more_  intimate. Alistair barely dared to breathe, astonished at his own daring.

Raising her head Flora eyed her brother-warden curiously for a moment, then settled down on the broad muscle of his chest. She rested her cheek against his shoulder, groping blindly down to pull the blanket up over them both.

"Night, Riatsila," emerged as a mumble, her face submerged in his shirt.

"Night, Arolf," he croaked back, his palm still spread over the small of her back. "Wake me if you have bad dreams."

"Mm!"

 

As it turned out, it was Alistair who woke in the middle of the night, blinking bleary-eyed and disorientated into the shadow. The smell of damp canvas filled his nostrils and the uneven texture of the bedroll lay lumpen and uncomfortable beneath his back. It took the young man a moment to identify the unusual pressure on his chest as his sister-warden, who was still sound asleep with her cheek resting against his shoulder. Flora was still sprawled atop him, the shirt rucked up around her waist and one bare thigh nestled neatly between his. More of her crimson hair had escaped the restricting leather band; it spilled across his chest like Antivan port-wine.

He held her for several minutes, listening to the steady thud of her heartbeat against his chest. Despite the night's dampness and the mouldering, mildewed miasma that hung inside the tent, Flora's body felt reassuringly warm. Alistair did not understand why this was – the blanket was not thick, and she was clad only in shirt, smalls and socks – but assumed that it might have something to do with her spirit healer's permanent connection to the Fade.

It took him a moment to realise that there was  _another_  source of heat keeping the dampness of Ostagar at bay. Naked lust was beginning to kindle in the depths of the young Warden's belly; desire sending liquidous tendrils throughout his body. The proximity of his companion – the press of her small breasts against his chest, the tangle of her bare legs in his – had proven too much for him to resist. Alistair was caught between dismay –  _how_ could his body betray him when all he had intended was to hold her? – and  _desire_ , need prickling across him like a rash.

He was already erect, tenting the thin fabric of his sleep-trousers. The length of his shaft was trapped against her thigh; it was increasingly uncomfortable and Alistair shifted slightly in an effort to free himself.

 _I just need to get it away from her,_ he thought to himself, feverishly.  _It won't last long if I expose it to the cold air._

Unfortunately, just as the young man was deciding how best to move, Flora shifted in her sleep with a northerner's grunt. Alistair's clothed manhood slid neatly between her thighs, the head nestled up against her small-clothes.

Alistair let out a strangled sound of alarm, even as his cock swelled in response; eager to work its way within its natural habitat. Only two layers of linen separated them, thin enough that he could feel the plump contour of her folds. He could also feel heat pulsing from between her legs; raw and needful.

Very tentatively, Alistair nudged himself up against her; feeling a delicious moment of yielding before the barrier of their clothing got in the way. Hardly daring to breathe, he thrust once more; slow and tentative. His cockhead pushed between her folds for just a fraction; she let out a sigh in her sleep. Guilty but entirely unable to resist, Alistair continued to rock his iron-hard shaft against her softness; barely able to stifle the involuntary groans escaping from his throat.

He could feel her the pace of her heartbeat increase against his chest, hear her breath catch as she was stimulated; the linen of her smalls soon grew damp with her arousal. Unable to resist, he reached down to trace the outline of her folds with a gentle finger. Gradually rousing herself from sleep, she let out a half-whimper, instinctively pushing herself towards his exploratory caress. Alistair's fingertip slid tentatively towards the edge of her smallclothes, hesitated for a moment, then crept beneath. He found the slick little bead at the top of her cleft and began to rub at it; coaxing forth both more wetness and accompanying whimpers.

The sound of one of their brethren coughing several metres away in the shadows caused Alistair to stop, darting an anxious glance to the side. His attention was returned to the girl on his bedroll by her hand dropping to his cheek; tilting his face back towards her.

"Don't stop," Flora whispered, pleadingly. "Please. It feels so nice. You can take off my smalls completely if you like."

Alistair fumbled to follow her request, sliding the linen down her thighs. She completed the gesture, stretching down a hand to tug them impatiently over her knees and ankles. As she settled back down on top of him, he reached down to rest his palms on her naked buttocks; cupping and squeezing the firm, rounded flesh with covetous fingers. As her brother-warden kneaded each ripe cheek, Flora leaned forward to whisper in his ear; letting her fingers linger on his chest.

"Tell me what you want to do," she whispered, the last words emerging unsteadily as he brushed a curious thumb over her pinprick.

Alistair tried to force some rational thought through his mind; a difficult task when only a single layer of fabric separated his straining cock from its goal.

"I want to rub it against you," he croaked at last, reasoning that this – at least – he should be able to manage. "If – if that's alright with you."

Flora nodded solemnly, then shot him a sleepy, cat-like smile, the corner of her mouth curving upwards.

"Mm, it's alright with me."

Alistair lifted a clumsy hand, sliding his fingers into her hair in a gesture of surprising tenderness even as his other hand reached down to his breeches. To his relief, the buttons came loose as easy as butter; releasing his shaft from its painful constrictions. He let out a low and involuntary grunt of relief as it sprang free to nestle within his sister-warden's thighs, instinctively angling itself against the slick folds.

Flora bit her lip with the effort of holding herself back, sweat clinging to the hollow of her throat. If this had been Duncan, she would already have been bouncing eagerly away atop her lover's manhood; focused on nothing save for the sheer pleasure of it.

 _But it's Alistair,_ she reminded herself, sternly.  _He needs to take it at his own pace. I don't want him to run away again; it's dark and he might trip over something._

Wanting him to be comfortable, Flora rested her cheek against his shoulder and let out a long, low exhalation; trying without much success to calm her racing heart. She could feel her friend's body rigid with desire beneath her; Alistair was gritting his teeth with the effort of restraint. The two sides of the young recruit were in clear conflict: a deep-seated dominance urged him to roll his pretty sister-warden onto her belly and mount her, but this instinctual impulse was countered by Alistair's shy awareness of his own lack of experience. Part of him wished that he had never watched her making love with their commander – Duncan had set an extremely high standard.

Forcing the memory of Flora writhing in ecstasy underneath the old Rivaini from his mind, Alistair focused instead on the delicious softness nestled against the head of his cock. His sister-warden was slick with arousal – partly due to his earlier illicit fondling – and her folds felt like hot velvet beneath him. They yielded with irresistible ease as he took his shaft in hand; gliding his cock in rhythmic strokes up and down. The sound of wet flesh moulding together was unmistakable; both Alistair and Flora went pink in the cheeks as they listened to their own arousal.

"Feels nice," she whispered dreamily as he began to pleasure himself with a rough fist; angling his shaft to simultaneously stimulate her pearl of pleasure. His throbbing cockhead circled the sensitive nub; still sore from when Loghain had spanked her little cunt earlier that evening.

Alistair could manage only a strangled grunt in response; teeth gritted as he gripped himself by the root. He had clumsily dragged a blanket over them to hide their activities from prying eyes; yet the movements beneath the wool were unmistakable. It was also increasingly difficult to suppress the accompanying sounds of pleasure; both from their throats and from the movement of their bodies. They were rubbing themselves together with increasing need, his cockhead grinding into her slick, yielding folds. Flora clung to his tunic with desperate fingers, both of them flushed and sweaty; utterly astonished by how  _good_ it felt.

"You like it?" he managed to croak into her ear, lips brushing against the skin.

She let out a strangled squeak, wishing that they were in some more private location so that she could stop biting back her moans.

Just then, from somewhere beyond the canvas wall of the tent tent, somebody stumbled into a carelessly abandoned wagon. They let out a muffled, foreign-tongued curse in response to the unexpected collision of wood and metal.

The sudden sound was enough to startle Alistair; whose nerves were already thrumming with adrenaline. He jerked, his hand slipped and inadvertently guided his cockhead between his sister-warden's folds. The welcoming heat that surrounded him made the young Warden groan, his wide eyes meeting Flora's own startled gaze.

"Shit," he half-gasped, barely able to form the words. "Sorry, I – ah,  _Maker- "_

He reached up with both hands to grip her buttocks; keeping her firmly in place.

"I.. I'm just going to push in a little, Flo. I just want to know what it feels like."

Flora wanted to tell him that he did not need to apologise, that she had been secretly stroking herself to thoughts of him ever since Duncan had shown her how to self-pleasure. Unknown to Flora, her brother-warden had been doing exactly the same thing beneath the blankets; spilling his seed in his hand with shy fantasies of her in his mind.

The next moment, she felt him penetrate her more deeply; stretching her with each hesitant inch. The sounds coming from his throat were raw and hungry; a rare heat flaring within the warm hazel irises. His fingers gripped her buttocks hard enough to leave imprints; she could not have moved away if she had wanted to.

Flora definitely did  _not_ want to. Dreamy-eyed and delighted, she slumped on his chest and savoured the sensation of her friend's girth entering her. Despite his promise to only push in a little, it soon became clear that Alistair intended to sheathe his entire length within her slick, yielding heat. He clutched her hips, angling himself inside her with unblinking focus; she could feel the perspiration rising in beads on his chest.

"You feel so good," her brother-warden croaked in Flora's ear, his breath hot and excited.  _"So_ good. I – I need to keep going."

In a sudden, sweaty movement he had rolled her over onto the damp bedroll; repositioning himself hastily. With her legs bent to either side, Alistair reached out to grab at a nearby lantern. With fumbling impatience, he positioned it to cast its flickering light between her parted thighs; illuminating the broad, tawny length of his cock embedded halfway within her folds. He stared down at their seamless moulding for a long moment, speechless at how she had stretched to accommodate his girth.

There were still several more inches of his shaft to push in; he had seen their commander bury himself to the sac inside his whimpering young recruit. Gritting his teeth and reaching down to lift her hips, Alistair worked himself fully inside the pretty mage's yielding little cunt; his buttocks taut with the effort of not spending himself.

As his meaty sac finally settled against her thighs, they both let out a soft sigh of mutual relief. Alistair opened his eyes to peer down at his friend, hoping desperately that she was content. To his relief Flora was gazing up at him with pink-cheeked delight. Impulsively, he ducked his head to seek out her mouth; the young Wardens shared a shy, tender kiss. This quickly turned into a series of kisses; lips and tongues tangling together with increasing desire.

As Alistair kissed his sister-warden with reckless ardour, his hips began to move of their own accord. This was the one part of lovemaking that the young man ought not to have worried about; pure instinct drove him between her thighs in long and satisfying strokes. The honed olive muscle of his buttocks and powerful thighs contracted with each deep thrust; she clung to his shoulders and yielded with joyful abandonment.

Those still awake in the Wardens' dormitory tent were not surprised to hear the distinctive sounds of flesh colliding in the shadowed corner; accompanied by low grunts and breathless whimpers. Several of them had even placed money on when the nervous young man would pluck up the courage to roll over and mount the girl on the next pallet. From the frantically moving silhouettes against the canvas wall – and the blanket slipping down to reveal bobbing buttocks – tonight seemed to be the night.

Alistair was senseless of all those around him save for the girl beneath him. He drove her into the damp mattress with each forceful shove of his hips; aware only of her gasps, the sweat on her belly; the dig of her bitten nails into his shoulders. His sac slapped wet and heavy against her in an unsubtle advertisement of their activities.

Rising up onto broad and perspiring thighs, he lifted his pretty mage up by her hips and sunk joyfully into her from this new angle. The sudden shift in position led to the hem of Flora's shirt pulling taut beneath her buttocks. Several buttons popped loose and the linen fell open, revealing a pert, creamy breast. Alistair let out a strangled gasp; pausing momentarily in his thrusts to admire the high little peak, crafted perfectly to fit into a grown man's mouth.

Flora half-smiled dazedly up at him, flailing a hand to pull the lantern closer. Her other hand reached to unfasten the last few buttons; opening her shirt fully to display her breasts in the candlelight.

This proved to be too much for Alistair, whose climax arrived suddenly and without warning. He croaked something shaped like her name down at her, eyes wide and desperate.

"Flo –  _Flo- "_

"Whaa?" gasped back the equally ineloquent Flora, stunned by the force of her brother-warden's thrusts.

It was too late; Alistair's fingers clenched on her hips and his shoulders heaved; hips juddering in erratic rhythm as he spent himself within her in a half-dozen spurts. A strangled sound escaped from his throat as he gazed down at her, eyes boring into Flora's startled, pink-cheeked face as though memorising each freckle on her nose. He stayed frozen in position above her, the entire back of his tunic saturated with sweat and clinging to the defined muscle of his shoulders.

Flora reached up to cup his cheek against her palm, tracing the strong jawbone with a lingering thumb. She had been thoroughly caught off-guard by the passion shown by her virginal brother-warden during their coupling; once the initial fumbling and hesitation had passed, he made love to her with a joyful, primal confidence. Alistair tilted his face instinctively against her hand and she smiled up at him, her hair spread in disarray across the folded jacket that served as a pillow.

Alistair drew in an unsteady breath, then rolled off her with a grunt, landing on his back on the adjoining bedroll as he struggled to catch his breath. Flora propped herself up on an elbow and reached for his water flask.

"Have a drink," she whispered, encouragingly. "It's water."

He took it with gratitude, gulping down several overlarge mouthfuls as some of the contents dripped down his throat. Flora watched him like a hawk, her eyes searching his face for any sign of disquiet. Once he had finished, Flora took the water-pouch back; then reached out to smooth an affectionate hand over his rumpled head.

"Was it good?" she asked, with a mixture of hope and trepidation. "

Still too astonished to speak, Alistair let out a strangled croak of affirmation. Flora curved the corner of her mouth towards him in a shy beam, her fingers still drifting through the dishevelled clumps of bronze atop his head.

"And you're alright?" she pressed on anxiously, recalling how solicitous Duncan had been after they had made love for the first time. "You don't regret it?"

A grunt of affirmation for her first query and a quick back-forth shake of the head for her second followed. Relieved, Flora slid herself across the gap between the bedrolls to curl into his side, putting her arm over his abdomen in a vain attempt to encircle his powerful frame.

"You can hold me as long as you like," she promised him, solemnly. "Until morning, if you want. Then I have to get up for dawn patrol."

Without hesitation, Alistair took her up on her offer; sliding his arm around her shoulders and drawing her against his chest. Flora could feel the steady thud of his heart as it reclaimed a normal rhythm; his fingers wandering the breadth of her shoulders. He was quiet for several minutes and she wondered if he had fallen asleep; a quick glance showed that instead he was gazing at her, the hazel eyes soft and thoughtful.

"Don't feel guilty," Flora instructed, suddenly worried that he was caught on the prongs of some moral dilemma. "There was nothing wrong with what we did. You don't need to pray or ask forgiveness for anything."

Alistair grinned up at her, and it was the usual indolent smile that she had come to expect from him.

"No need to worry, Flo. I've no regrets whatsoever."


	46. Don't Be Late For Dawn Patrol

The next morning dawned grey and drizzly; a state of affairs that would have all of Ostagar complaining save for the one girl for whom rain reminded her of home. Anyone who had left weapons or armour out the previous night soon had cause to regret it as precipitation puddled on flat surfaces, running in rivulets down the damp canvas and turning dusty puddles to mud.

Flora awoke just before dawn, contorted in an odd position on her bedroll. She was sprawled facedown on the damp matting, with one knee drawn up and one arm flung over her head. Unable to see – her hair had escaped its restraining band – she lay contorted for a moment; gathering her bearings.

Shortly afterwards, she grew aware of a gentle touch across her arm; a finger stroking the skin in thoughtful, lazy movements. Opening one eye, Flora clawed back the mass of disobedient hair until she could see the young man lying beside her. Alistair was propped on an elbow, his olive features as cool and ascetic as a statue in the monochromatic pre-dawn dimness. His eyes, in contrast, were warm and appreciative as they meandered over her; the green flecks standing out stark against the rich amber irises.

"Morning, Flo," he murmured, the corner of his mouth curving upwards in a smile that was part-shy and part-lazy. There was something imperceptibly different about her brother-warden's demeanour as he sprawled languid beside her; a mantle of confidence – almost of maturity – that had sprouted in the aftermath of their activities the previous night.

"Morning," Flora mumbled back, returning his smile as she rolled onto her back and rubbed at her face. "Oooh, I'm stiff. Did they ring the dawn bell yet?"

Alistair shook his head, continuing to gaze down at her with growing appreciation. His eyes moved from her dishevelled hair – still in disarray from their lovemaking – then down to the shirt rumpled around her bare thighs, a tempting hint of peachy flesh visible where the buttons had come loose. He could just about glimpse the edge of her pink nipple; ripe and succulent as a raspberry.

The desire was now writ raw over the young man's face; the breath caught in his throat.

"Flo," he whispered, shifting on the bedroll to accommodate his growing arousal. "Do- do you want to…?"

For a moment, Flora was sorely tempted – they had just enough time for a few quick thrusts beneath the blanket while their fellow Wardens were still coming to their senses – but her conscience won out.

"I can't," she replied, reluctantly. "I have dawn patrol."

Alistair propped himself up on an elbow as she rummaged about her meagre possessions. Flora had arrived at Ostagar with nothing of her own; all her belongings were hand-me-downs from the Warden stores. He watched her retrieve a pair of ill-fitting breeches, her own fingers gleaming with just enough light to illuminate the buttons.

"Who's going on dawn patrol with you?" he asked, a note of anxiety in his tone. "Anyone I know?"

"Um," replied Flora, pulling the belt as taut as it could go. The leather strap was made for a man, and even the tightest hole sat dangerously low on her hips. The young mage gloomily predicted her trousers falling down at some crucial point in battle, much to the derision of the other combatants.

"Mullins," she said after a moment, naming a soldier infamous in the camp for his buffoonery. "His friend, with the one eye and broken nose. And the dwarf who thinks my name is Filbert."

Flora gave a little shrug, giving up on tightening the belt. Next, she looked around for her boots, reasoning that since  _most_ of her hair was still inside the leather band, there was no point in loosening and brushing it.

"Well, two of them are total idiots," retorted Alistair, a crease of concern furrowing itself into his handsome brow. "And the other is half-blind. Dawn patrol can be dangerous, Flo – any Darkspawn left behind by the main pack will be still wandering around!"

Flora flashed him a lopsided smile, leaning backwards to pull on her boots.

"Are you  _worried_  about me?" she asked, fascinated by his concern.

Alistair shook his head, an odd mixture of ruefulness and resignation writ across his olive-toned face; made pallid by the pre-dawn grey.

"I know you aren't  _mine,"_  he said, keeping his voice deliberately steady. "I know you don't belong to any man here. But… now I've seen you the way I have, I can't go back to how it was between us. I care about you, Flo, and I – I  _need_  you to be safe."

Flora eyed him for a moment, and then smiled; leaning forwards over her knees to press her lips against his stubbled cheek.

"I'll see you later, brother-warden," she whispered, fastening up one of his loosened shirt buttons with deft fingers. "And… I'll be careful, I promise."

Avoiding the other Wardens as they savoured their last hour of rest, Flora made her way out of the tent and crept between the other makeshift dormitories. A pre-dawn dullness was draped like a pall over the fortress, cloud trailing in long skeins over the crumbling parapets like vines. Drizzle hung in the air, dense enough to dampen clothing with sly subtlety; puddles from the night's rainfall formed in the gaps between uneven flagstones.

Flora did not mind the general sogginess of the morning; in her mind, rain meant that she did not have to worry about washing her clothes. She splashed through the puddles with her staff tucked unceremoniously within her armpit, her hand occupied with bringing a burnt slice of toast to her mouth. Humming a tuneless Herring folksong to herself through a mouthful of bread, the mage made her way towards the entrance to the fortress.

Rumours of Loghain's blistering tirade against his own negligent soldiers had spread rapidly through the camp. As a result, the other members of the dawn patrol had turned up  _early_ – desperate to avoid their commander's wrath. The entrance to the fortress was swarming with men, horses and various servants; the courtyard was the busiest that Flora had ever seen it and she blinked in open-mouthed surprise.

Thirty yards away, Duncan was trapped within a circle of complaining nobles; and was fighting back a childish urge to punch his way out. Cailan was complaining that he had been banned from launching an expedition to a different Darkspawn nest, a well-known bann's son was complaining about the lack of opportunities for glory; a pair of half-drunken knights were trying to persuade each other to join the Wardens.

Tantalisingly near, the Rivaini could see his pretty mage getting a boost up onto the saddle; one so vigorous that she almost fell off the other side. She clutched at the horse's mane with a look of naked alarm, thick ropes of crimson hair already escaping her braid.

 _Just shove your way through this band of spoilt brats and go to greet her,_ urged the base part of Duncan's nature that had not evolved past impulsive street urchin.

Fortunately, the Warden-Commander had learnt to temper the impetuous demands of his inner youth, and so, grinding his teeth, he forced himself to listen to the complaints of the king. He did, however, manage to catch Flora's eye as she perched precariously on the saddle, the corner of his mouth twisting imperceptibly up. She caught the flicker of a smile and returned it, waving her bitten-nailed fingers surreptitiously at her commander.

Irrationally pleased, Duncan watched the dawn patrol pass beneath the raised portcullis; the narrow bridge beyond thankfully free of ogres. To his surprise, when he returned his gaze to the thinning crowds in the courtyard, Duncan spotted Loghain hovering in a corner with a glower on his face and his arms folded. The general had clearly come to make sure that his troops were punctual for the dawn patrol; that he would not be shown up by his own men for a second day in a row.

 _I'll say this about the old bastard,_ Duncan thought begrudgingly to himself as the two men shared a cool, guardedly civil glance.  _He's good at his job._

A short while later, the Warden-Commander made his way back to the Order's main encampment; enticed by the smell of sizzling bacon and eggs. For the first time in nearly a decade, Duncan had found himself harbouring a desire for breakfast, and for food in  _general,_ knowing that this was wholly due to the rejuvenative properties of his mage's tongue. In previous years the commander had contented himself with a few rounds of plain toast – unable to discern even if the bread was fresh or stale. Now, Duncan found that his appetite was as ravenous as it had been three decades prior, when he had first undergone the transformation into a  _Warden._

Many of the other Wardens were also up, gathered at the tables near the campfires. They too had been coaxed from the tent by the delicious smells, and were helping themselves to steaming platefuls of eggs and bacon.

As Duncan approached, he caught sight of a familiar figure in their midst; tall and golden-headed like the proverbial hero of folk legend. The commander suppressed a smile as he watched Alistair shovel two sausages at once into his mouth, his fork already descending for a third.

"Steady on, lad," the Rivaini murmured wryly, taking a seat nearby as the other Wardens made way for their commander. "Choking on sausage wouldn't be a death worthy of a Grey Warden."

"Ah, the boy's just got a healthy morning-after appetite," piped up one grinning soldier, eyes gleaming mischievously. This prompted a flurry of snorts and murmurs from those gathered around; while a flush began to creep up from Alistair's collar.

"I'd have an appetite too, if I'd spent a night between that lovely little redhead's thighs," chimed in another, cackling at the young man's expression. "Commander, you'll be pleased to hear that our Chantry boy's a maid no longer."

Duncan's eyebrows shot up into his hairline; grinning to disguise the maelstrom of conflicting emotion that had erupted within him.

 _This is what you'd planned,_  he told himself, sternly.  _You practically placed her on the lad's bedroll and parted her thighs for him._

_I wonder if she came? Probably not, if it was his first time._

"Is this true, Alistair?" he asked, deliberately light.

_Envy isn't something that a man of my years and position should feel. I've made no claim on my qalbi – how could I?_

_I've no future to offer her. What promise could I make to a girl three decades my junior?_

"Course it's bloody true," cackled the first man who had spoken. "I saw him humping away at her with my own eyes. The whole  _tent_ heard them rutting. Though it didn't last that long, heh."

Duncan smiled, irritated with himself for feeling a twinge of vicarious triumph. Alistair was squirming on the spot now, two bright red patches flaring on his cheeks. The young Warden was not so embarrassed about being caught – such was inevitable, there was little privacy at Ostagar – but more at the fact that he had lain with his commander's lover. Alistair had followed ardently in Duncan's footsteps for almost a year, now, he was anxious that he had put their bond in jeopardy.

With some difficulty Duncan suppressed both the triumph and the jealousy; after all, this was not a situation where anyone could be blamed. Instead, he gave a low chuckle and clapped Alistair gently between the shoulder-blades, amusement sparking in his thoughtful Riviani eyes.

"Better late than never, lad," he murmured, wryly. "Just see that you don't get  _distracted_ from your duties. She's a… very pretty girl."

For the rest of the morning Duncan found that his mind periodically wandered from its duties; returning over and over to a damp bedroll in the corner of the Warden dormitory tent. He found himself envisioning how the coupling might have gone: which one of them had been on top; if they had bothered to undress fully or just pulled aside inconvenient items of clothing.

Pausing half-way through a letter to his Marcher counterpart, Duncan found himself wondering what noises his sweet  _qalbi_ had made while writhing excitedly against her brother-warden.

_She moans in such an exquisite manner; no man could hear her whimper without the blood rushing straight to their cock._

_I'd wager ten gold coins that she didn't come for him last night. My poor little amira; I've half a mind to ride out and join her dawn patrol. Then I could at least bend her over a tree-stump while the others keep watch._

Grumbling softly at his own distraction, Duncan forced himself to return his attention to the letter. Moments later, his mind had diverted itself once more; utterly unable to resist.

_I'll have to find them a place where they can explore each other fully without fear of interruption, I'll leave the lad some oil in case he wants to try something crude._

_Of course, it'll need to have somewhere where I can sit and observe them secretly, too._

_He won't have satisfied her, not if it was his first time._

Forcing himself to put his red-headed mage from his head, the Warden-Commander turned his attention to other matters. He went down to the grassy slopes outside the fortress walls to watch his recruits spar, offering advice and occasionally demonstrating a particular parry or blow. He then spent a wasted hour listening patiently to Cailan as the reckless young king gesticulated above a map-table; shoving around counters with no tactical awareness whatsoever. At one point – after Cailan had suggested removing most troops from Ostagar in order to clear out a Darkspawn nest – Duncan found himself catching Loghain's eye in incredulity. The two men were long-time rivals and agreed on very little; but were united in astonishment by Cailan's lack of battlefield awareness.

Once the meeting was over – and Cailan had been persuaded  _not_ to leave the fortress undefended – the general and the commander fell into rare synchrony as they exited the tent. They headed towards the main courtyard as beans of watery sunlight filtered through the thick blanket of cloud; creating milky patches against the dull stone.

"Maker's Breath," muttered Loghain after a moment, his jaw stiff and grimly unamused. "If Maric could hear the foolishness coming from his son – I think he'd vanish once again."

Duncan let out a humourless snort, turning towards the set of crumbling steps that led towards the terrace housing the Wardens' camp. As he was about to take the first step, a strident query rang out behind him; the familiar tones of the king ringing clear through the filtered sunlight.

"Why can't I take Dora with me, then?"

For a moment, the Warden-Commander considered pretending that he had not heard Cailan's suggestion. Grinding his teeth, he thought better of it; swivelling measuredly around to face the handsome, floppy-haired king. Cailan was bouncing on his toes like an excitable Mabari pup, eyes alight.

"What?"

"I know she's  _limited,"_ the king continued, recalling an occasion when he had commanded her to roast a Hurlock within column of arcane fire; Flora had gaped at him in confusion. She had never even been able to light a  _candle,_ let alone summon a firestorm.

"But, she's got a  _shield,_ and that's all I need," Cailan continued, triumphantly. "We… we could take on the entire  _nest by ourselves –_ if she can hold the shield for as long as it takes me to slaughter everything inside!"

The king's face was alight with youthful exuberance; the sort that made Duncan feel weary. The Warden-Commander wished that Loghain could have lingered a few moments longer to dampen the enthusiasm of his wayward son-in-law, but the general was already headed towards the drilling grounds.

"No," the Rivaini said flatly, tired of pandering to a young man's dreams of glory. "I'll not have my mage taking such unnecessary risks. She's- " here he almost said  _precious,_ "- valuable to me."

_I won't squander her to fulfil your egotistical fantasies._

Cailan pouted: a child denied a favourite toy.

 _And I won't put her in your clutches,_ Duncan continued in his own mind, face blank and uncompromising.  _Alistair is kind, and very handsome; he makes her laugh and it's not a surprise that she likes him. For some odd reason the girl is drawn to Loghain – Maker knows why, he's neither looks nor charm. I suppose he's a northerner and that's what attracts her._

_I know for a fact that she's not attracted to Cailan. He misnames her, he groped her without consent, and she's never forgiven him for it._

_The king can throw all the tantrums he likes; he can't have her._

"If that's all, Cailan," Duncan said, cutting soft and decisive across the beginnings of protest. "I've got an inspection to perform."

This was not a lie; his men would be practising in the training ground and it was customary for their commander to oversee their progress. Although the Grey Wardens were no militia, they still drilled on a daily basis. Duncan was well aware of the motley collection under his command – criminals, conscripts and casteless rubbed shoulders with those who had joined for more noble purpose, Although Duncan was not as strict as Loghain when it came to instilling discipline amongst the ranks, he recognised the importance of some measure of formal practice.

The Warden-Commander had a desk positioned at one end of the training courtyard, so he could watch the men under his command thrash away at the wooden dummies. Most times, any paperwork he brought ended up was left neglected on the side; Duncan often ended up circulating amongst the sparring men, offering advice and admonition in equal measure. He did not care much for technique – after all, the Darkspawn did not use any – but he would not countenance sloppy swordsmanship. After all, weak thrust that left a flank exposed would be fatal in the field.

Ironically, the man with the best theoretical technique in their number was Alistair; who had undergone morning drill with the Templars for a decade. His methodical rendition of the different cuts and stances had earned him envy-tinged derision from the others at first; until they saw how effective such actions could be when fuelled with adrenaline and combined with brute strength.

Duncan leaned back against the fence and watched Alistair hack methodically away at one of the training dummies. The cambric shirt stuck to the contour of his back; sweat marking out the definition of each flexing muscle. The young man was holding back a portion of his strength – after all, he did not want to destroy the training dummy – but there was no denying the raw power contained within.

"Rykard, come here a moment."

A greying elf, scrawny in build save for a well-developed bow-arm, sidled over to where his commander stood. He had the sallow look of a man who was slowly being consumed by the taint – like a portrait left to fade in the sun – but was still quick as a snake on the battle-field; his instinct razor-sharp.

Duncan leaned forward a fraction, murmuring in the elf's ear.

"How was your sleep last night?"

The elf curled a thin lip in response, a humourless snort escaping.

"The whispers let me have a few hours. Very generous of them."

Suppressing a faint of guilt – Flora's attentions had meant that he had enjoyed unprecedented slumber - Duncan lowered his voice a fraction.

"I – ah – hope you weren't disturbed by the activities of our younger members."

He canted his head meaningfully towards where Alistair faced off against the training ground. The elf grinned, and for a brief moment he appeared ten years younger.

" _Disturbed?_ Not in the slightest – it was nice to be distracted from the dwarf snoring. That witch has got a glorious little body, for a _shem."_

Duncan's cock stirred at the mention; he knew first-hand the delights concealed beneath Flora's ill-fitting garb. According to Mac Tir's tent-guard, who was paid to report back to the Warden-Commander, the first thing that Loghain had done with his borrowed lover was strip her naked in the centre of his tent.

"I only wish it had lasted longer," the elf complained, scratching at his beard. "The boy humped himself on top of her like an over-excited Mabari, then spilled his seed in minutes. The poor lass must have been left with an aching little cunt – I don't think he took care of  _her_ needs, if you know what I mean."

"Hm."

Just then, a panting scout came to an abrupt halt beside them; leather rustling as he skidded on the gravel.

"Warden-Commander," he croaked out, having just sprinted up the fifty six steps leading to the upper terrace. "You requested notification when the dawn patrol arrived back. They've just been spotted coming in now, ser."

Duncan cast a quick glance upwards, gauging the hour by the position of the anaemic autumnal sun. Beside him, the elven Warden expressed similar thought.

"They're late back. Must've run into some trouble."

By the time the elf had finished his sentence, the Rivaini was already striding towards the crumbling steps; face set with grim purpose.

Ten minutes later, Duncan had arrived in the courtyard beside the main gate. As usual, the wide sweep of stone was bustling with excitable new arrivals, delivery-wagons and retainers clad in a rainbow of livery; yet the Warden-Commander's eye went straight to the splash of crimson just before the drawbridge. Flora's hair stood out in defiance of the drab backdrop

It was custom for returning patrols to fill out a brief report on Darkspawn activity on their return, so that the great war-map in the command tent could be kept up to date. The soldiers were gathered around a scribe, who was nodding hastily as he scratched away with a shedding quill.

Assuming a careful neutrality of expression, Duncan made his way through the crowd; which helpfully parted before the senior warden, of whom they were slightly in awe.

The rest of the dawn patrol was made up of a motley crew – one florid man with an ale-belly that spilled out below his breast-plate, another cross-eyed fellow who kept missing his sheath in repeated attempts to put away his sword, and a hiccuping dwarf. Flora was standing slightly to one side, clutching her staff and peering forwards anxiously.

"Oi, Filbert!" called the dwarf, gesturing to her without looking at her. "You got to come sign yer name on this report."

For a split second, Duncan's blood ran cold in his veins:  _how could he have allowed his qalbi out in the company of such dolts?_ Swearing to check the names of those on the duty roster from that moment onwards, he strode forwards to meet them.

Another shock was in store as he drew near; Flora's tunic was covered in dark smears of coagulating blood. Beneath the blood, she appeared well enough – save for the anxiety that emerged any time that she was required to use a quill.

"Here, Filbert. Sign this!"

The report had been passed around the three other soldiers to sign, the dwarf now handed the quill and parchment to Flora. Flora took the quill gingerly, holding the sharpened feather clumsily between her fingers. Ink dribbled out into a blotch on her thumb, she made a hastily scratched  _X_ on the page; then handed both quill and feather back to the scribe.

Just then, the pot-bellied man noticed the arrival of the Warden-Commander, who had come to a halt nearby. His dark, thoughtful eyes settled on each man at a time; each of whom quailed under the intensity of the Rivaini's gaze.

"Warden-Commander!" croaked the cross-eyed man, almost dropping his sword in a mixture of fear and excitement. "Warden Commander, we ran into a Darkspawn scouting unit just at the mouth of the valley! Six Hurlocks and two Genlocks."

 _That should have been a massacre,_ Duncan thought to himself, grimly.  _Eight Darkspawn versus four? They'd have been slaughtered, if it weren't for-_

"My expert swordsmanship saved us, naturally," interrupted the pot-bellied man, delighted at the opportunity to boast of his own exploits before someone important. "I hacked the Hurlocks to pieces with my blade. Gareth here managed to chop off two Genlock heads in a single swing!"

"Very impressive," replied Duncan gravely, his gaze settling on his mage.

She had gone a little pink in the cheeks – pleased that he had come to greet her – but was trying diligently to hide it, peering down at her own bloodied boots.

"Well, it's  _easy_  when they can't  _touch_  us," explained the dwarf, gesturing casually towards their mage.

"I imagine that it would be," Duncan replied, solemnly.

"Oi, witch – yeh can't shield the entire army at a time, can yeh?"

Flora shook her head dolefully, working free a lump of coagulated blood from the end of her braid.

"Shame!"

Duncan decided that it was time to interject; clearing his throat before stepping forwards and catching Flora's eye.

"Come, Flora. Debrief me on the way back."

He almost laughed at her confused expression – she clearly had no idea what  _debrief_ meant - but managed to maintain the grave neutrality of his own features; waiting for her to retrieve her staff and water-flask.

Together, they made their way through the vaguely-organised chaos of the courtyard, weaving around wagons and abandoned baggage, assorted crates and harried retainers. For the most part Duncan kept his gaze fixed ahead; darting only the occasional glance down to the girl at his side.

"That blood isn't yours," he sought to confirm as they climbed a set of steps leading to the upper courtyard. "Reassure me,  _qalbi."_

"No, no," she replied, peering down at the reddish smears staining the fabric of her tunic. "It belongs to Weydon."

Weydon was the soldier with one lop-sided eye.

"Ah," replied Duncan, placing his hand on the small of her back to nudge her gently in the correct direction – she had been about to head blithely into the Templar quarters. "Genlock arrow? Cut by a Hurlock?"

"Neither," replied Flora gravely, letting him redirect her without question. "He accidentally stabbed himself in the thigh when he was trying to sheath his sword."

Duncan came to an abrupt, incredulous halt; she continued several steps further on before releasing that he had stopped.

" _Amira,_ tell me that you speak in jest."

She shook her head and he let out a strangled groan, pulling a hand over his face before continuing onwards.

"For the love of the Maker. I hope that the rest of Mac Tir's troops aren't men of Weydon's calibre."

"He did fight bravely," offered the kind Flora. "Once I had mended his leg."

The Warden-Commander let out a humourless snort, resuming his purposeful stride. Flora followed in his wake, peering up through her eyelashes. As a mage, she was used to suspicious stares and crowds parting in alarm before her; in Duncan's company, the reaction was more one of wariness and vague suspicion. She knew that the Fereldan people were naturally mistrustful of those from outside their own borders, and despite the years that the Warden-Commander had spent within the country, both appearance and voice still reflected his Rivaini heritage. She also knew that the soldiers viewed Wardens with general apprehension; leery of both their chequered past and their secretive practices.

Yet their scrutiny seemed to go entirely unnoticed by Duncan, who strode unblinking through the parting crowds like an old lion heading towards the hunting grounds. There was no arrogance or swagger about the greying Commander, but merely a quiet, inexorable assurance.

Flora eyed him, and thought that perhaps  _she_  might try walking through the camp with her chin up and eyes ahead too. When she tried this, an ill-timed trio Templars gave her such a filthy glower as they passed that she hastily returned her gaze to the flagstones.

They came to a halt outside a long tent of green and white striped canvas, with a yawning guard posted at one end. As the sleepy soldier rubbed at his face, he caught sight of the faintly amused Warden-Commander standing before him, dark eyes thoughtful. Such was the presence of the powerfully-built Rivaini that the guard barely took heed of the girl hovering at his side.

"Aah!"

"You look weary," observed Duncan, softly. "You're relieved from duty."

"B-but- " stammered the guard, bewildered. "Who'll oversee the wash tent?"

"I will," replied the Warden-Commander, equally grave.

" _You'll_ wash the watch tent – I mean,  _watch_ the  _wash tent?!"_

"That's what I said, aye. Now find somewhere else to be."

The soldier scuttled off, an astonished look writ across his face. Duncan held open the entrance flap for Flora to step inside, then ducked after her; turning back to swiftly lace the canvas folds closed.

The interior of the tent was lit only by thin shafts of sunlight filtering in through gaps in the canvas; long shadows cast over the earthen floor. It was a wash tent, but one of far finer quality than those that Flora was accustomed to using. Wooden partitions segmented the hall-like space, each one supplied with its own tin bathtub and fresh linens. A bucket of well-water also rested within each makeshift 'cubicle'; together with a set of sea-sponges and soaps.

"I don't think I'm supposed to be in here," Flora breathed, astonished at how the background noise of the camp had been muffled by the thick canvas walls. "This looks too nice for me."

Duncan smiled and said nothing, taking his pretty recruit by the hand and leading her towards one of the partitioned stalls. These provided only a semblance of privacy, since they lacked doors, but the Warden-Commander had laced the tent entrance closed and was reasonably sure that they would not be interrupted. He guided Flora into a wooden stall with a gentle hand on the small of her back; glancing swiftly over his shoulder before stepping into the stall behind her.

She had already begun to unlace her tunic, but paused as he came to a halt before her; a faint pinkness rising to her cheeks as she grew aware of the intensity of his stare. It was the first time that they had been alone since the previous night; he drank in the sight of her like a parched man stumbling across an oasis. His gaze moved feverishly over features already emblazoned in his mind – the sea-grey eyes, fringed with dark lashes like a Mabari, the faint scattering of freckles over the upturned nose, the deliciously overripe and decadent mouth that demanded attention. Strands of deep crimson had unwound themselves from her braid, falling to frame her face like strands of red ribbon.

Over the decades Duncan had bedded more pretty women than he could count; years prior, there had even been another red-headed mage with whom he had enjoyed an illicit liaison. Yet there was something oddly compelling about this girl's finely-hewn features, an almost archaic nature to her beauty. It was as though the Maker had crafted some Alamarri chieftain's daughter - all tangled hair and grave solemnity - then transported her a half-dozen Ages forward in time.

Duncan realised then that he had been doing nothing but stare at her for several moments. Flora was peering back up at him, anxiety knitted across her pale brow. He smiled to assuage her concern, swiftly discarding his gloves before taking her face in his hands.

"Your loveliness grows each time I see you,  _qalbi,"_ he murmured, watching the flush on her cheeks deepen at the compliment. "Surely such a fine flower shouldn't bloom in such dismal conditions."

The Warden-Commander could not stop himself from smiling at the dubious expression on Flora's face; she was a northerner, who did not take compliments well.

Flora was unsure whether she ought to  _return_  the compliment – she certainly would not be half as articulate as her commander – and so chose to distract him through other means; reaching up to put her arms around his neck. Drawing her lover's face downwards, she sought out his mouth with her own parted lips.

Duncan readily yielded to this unspoken request. He wasted no time with pecking, working her lips apart before claiming her mouth with his own desirous tongue. Rewarded by a half-gasp, he clutched her by the back of her tunic; increasing the momentum of the kiss until they were both breathless.

_She tastes like pears – I think she prefers them to apples, she always takes pears when she goes on patrol – her tongue is the sweetest thing that I've suckled on._

At last they drew apart for air; even Duncan was flush beneath the rich olive of his skin. He smiled down at her, and was about to speak when she let out a noise of protest, pulling his mouth back down to hers for a second time.

"Again- "

 _The elf was right,_ the Warden-Commander thought to himself as they kissed; his palm cupping one of Flora's small breasts through her tunic.  _She was left wanting more last night._

_Bumping around on a saddle all morning – my qalbi isn't an elegant rider – must have been been particularly cruel._

When they parted for a second time, she smiled shyly at him; cheeks pink with arousal and pleasure. Duncan could easily have gone in for a third kiss – towards the end of the second, she had begun to bite at his lip in a way that intrigued him – but restrained himself, clearing his throat and shifting from foot to foot.

"Tell me about what happened on the dawn patrol," he instructed, reaching down to finish unlacing her tunic. "I trust your words more than a report written by idiots."

Flora nodded, impressed at how deftly the commander's fingers were working free her Herring-knots.

"We didn't see anything for the first two hours," she said, earnestly. "We rode down through the valley, and then we got lost for a bit. Our navigator couldn't read the compass."

Even the teasing hints of creamy flesh that were being exposed with the removal of the tunic were not enough to stop Duncan from grinding his teeth.

"We managed to find the river after a while, and followed that," Flora continued, letting him work the sleeves from her arms. "Then we had to stop and have a snack for the dwarf. I wanted to eat too."

Duncan began to ask a question, but then cut himself off; temporarily distracted.

"One moment,  _zahra,"_ he murmured, throatily. "I have to greet these gorgeous little breasts properly."

The Warden-Commander's 'greeting' consisted of wrapping his lips around one nipple and sucking gently, his callused finger rubbing the other in tender circles. Flora let out a strangled squeak, feeling her knees weaken beneath her as heat flared in the depths of her belly.

"Are you getting wet for me, sweeting?" he enquired, a hoarse edge to the question. Then, when she nodded frantically: "That's my good girl."

Shifting to accommodate his erection, the Warden-Commander continued to undress her; rolling her breeches down her thighs and inhaling unsteadily as he discovered her lack of smallclothes.

"Fuck, look at  _that,_  Your cunt was crafted by the Maker's hand,  _qalbi."_

He drank in the sight of the peachy mound – stripped of auburn fuzz the previous night – and the pretty pink lips nestled neatly underneath. Her swollen pearl of pleasure peeked out at the apex of her folds, as though inviting curious fingers. She had been telling the truth – arousal was beginning to bead at the entrance to her cunt; a tell-tale sheen in the dim light.

"How wet did you get for Alistair, baby?"

This question came as he slid her trousers over her knees. Flora blushed at the memory of the previous night; cheeks pinkening at the activities she and Alistair had engaged in. She had known that Duncan would be aware of what they had done – at least four of their fellow Wardens had watched them rutting furtively on the bedroll.

" _Very_ ," she confessed, stepping out of the breeches one foot at a time. "But he was touching me between my legs for a while before I woke up. I did give him permission to touch me whenever he wanted, back when we were camping. Because he was too shy to do it when I was awake."

He had touched her for longer than Flora realised. Alistair had spent a delicious, shameful half-candle feeling the tender contours of his sister-warden's cunt before she had woken. He had parted her folds, traced the hardening nub of her clitoris and even pushed a shy finger inside up to the second knuckle. By the time that Flora had woken, she had been inadvertently fondled to near-climax.

Duncan did not know whether to smile or grimace; this illicit groping was clearly all the foreplay that his  _qalbi_ had received during her liaison with Duncan.

 _The lad is inexperienced,_ he told himself, sternly.  _It was the first time he sheathed himself in her._

_I'm sure they'll spent time refining his technique. Flora is a sweet and willing girl; and she blushes whenever I mention his name._

Duncan smiled down at her, keeping his thoughts to himself as he found himself distracted by her nakedness. Her small, up-tilted breasts, the pert buttocks, the plump and hairless mound; all seemed to invite strokes and caresses from desirous fingers.

"Tell me more about your patrol," he asked her, in a vain attempt to refocus his attention. "Where did the Darkspawn ambush you?

As Flora embarked on a rambling and unhelpful monologue about how they had gone in circles for two hours, Duncan methodically unwound her hair from its untidy fishtail braid. He pulled several strands of dark crimson over Flora's shoulders, watching them drop to her waist. The Warden-Commander could not quite explain why he loved to see his pretty young mage naked with her hair down. He supposed that it appealed to some primal, base need within him; the same urge that drove him to press her into the mattress during their rougher unions.

"It sounds as though you and the others dealt with the ambush well," he continued, dipping the sea-sponge into the bucket of water and squeezing it over her breasts. Flora did not flinch at its coldness, though her nipples sprung to attention as chilly rivulets ran into her cleavage.

"Mm," she agreed, tilting her head to let him pour a jugful over her hair. "Yes. No one got hurt. All the Darkspawn got killed."

The Warden-Commander smiled at her blunt northerner's appraisal, whilst also admiring her resilience to the admittedly chill water. Duncan had suspected as much; that, despite the haughty beauty, this was a girl who had not grown up bathing in hot water. He pressed the sponge to her breasts, watching more rivulets of water run down the creamy contour of her belly. Flora peered at him through strands of wet hair; unsure whether this had turned into  _genuine bathing_ or was still a precursor to amorous activity. He clicked his tongue for her to turn around and she decided to treat it as though it were the former; shuffling dutifully to face the wooden screen.

The Warden-Commander too had decided to keep up the pretence that this was anything other than foreplay. Duncan scrubbed between her shoulder blades, admiring the constellation of freckles spread over the pale skin. He let the water trickle down the smooth line of her back, following its descent until he was rewarded by the sight of her rounded rear. The sponge dropped forgotten from his hand; he reached out to cup her buttocks lovingly in his palms.

"This gorgeous ass," he murmured in her ear, letting the crudeness that ran just beneath the surface show through. "It's a good thing that you stand at the back in the field,  _qalbi._ I'd never be able to concentrate with this bobbing around in front of me."

He squeezed her buttocks within his palms, letting his thumb trace the firm, fleshy contour. Flora shifted from foot to foot, peering at him over her shoulder to the best of her ability.

"How did you get such a pretty rear, sweeting? I thought mages did little but sit down at desks in Circles."

Duncan's voice was remarkably even considering the size of the erection within his trousers. His arousal tented the fabric to a painful degree; his cock screaming at him to stop this pretence and bend her over

 _No,_ the Warden-Commander thought to himself.  _Alistair rutted her like an over-keen Mabari last night._

_Eager as you are, she needs this._


	47. Another Intimate Kiss

"I didn't sit behind a desk very much," confessed Flora, shivering with anticipation as he drew her wet buttocks apart. "I couldn't read or write, so there wasn't much for me to do. But there were  _a lot_ of steps down to the kitchens."

"Mystery solved," he murmured, abandoning the sponge and letting his thumb nestle tenderly against her pinprick. "When was the last time I took you here,  _amira?"_

" _Ages_ ago _,"_ whispered Flora, shooting him a mournful look over her shoulder.  _"Weeks._ MONTHS.  _Too_ long."

It had been a whole two nights since they had last uncorked the phial of oil and Duncan smiled, letting the end of his thumb nudge gently within her. She let out a little whimper, shooting him an imploring look.

"Then perhaps we'll do that later tonight," he replied quietly, giving the ripe buttock a final squeeze.

Flora shuffled around on the makeshift wooden flooring in excitement, and the Warden-Commander felt a sudden surge of affection. He brushed her hair way from the nape of her neck and kissed her between her shoulder-blades; one callused thumb brushing over the smooth, firm skin.

"Alistair will have to learn how to share," he continued, tracing a pattern half-remembered from his Rivaini youth onto her back. "It may be harder for him,  _qalbi,_ since he is young and you are his first."

_But I'm not giving you up._

_Why don't I deserve some pleasure in my last years?_   _Some affection? Has my life not been hard enough?_

"He knows no-one claims me," Flora replied, recalling Alistair's whispered words that morning. "That I'm free to do as I please."

Duncan nodded, placing his hand on her hips and turning her back around to face him. She did so obediently, wet hair plastered to her breasts like long skeins of coppery pond-weed; with her sea-water pale eyes, she could have been some aquatic creature stolen from the depths by a fisherman's net.

The Warden-Commander had no choice but to release his cock from his trousers at that point; his erection was too painful to keep tucked within his leathers. Flora stared longingly at the thick, tawny column of emerging from the fading nest of curls, then shot him a hopeful look.

"Please, can I… ?"

This had been precisely why Duncan had avoided taking his shaft out until his point; he knew that she would offer to take it in her mouth and he was not a strong enough man to decline. One hand went to Flora's shoulder to guide her to her knees, she was just licking her lips and preparing to descend when the Warden-Commander abruptly changed his mind.

"This is about  _you, zahra,"_ he murmured, running his hands over the curve of her hips. "Your needs, not mine."

"My needs?"

Duncan stepped forward, letting the sponge drop from his hand along with the pretence that this was an exercise in hygiene. He gripped her by the waist as she put her arms about his neck; his mouth seeking to press his desire into the delicate skin of her throat.

"Yes,  _qalbi_ ," he breathed, pressing her back against the wooden partition as his lips meandered in teasing patterns over her collarbone. "You're a grown woman, with a woman's needs."

"I am?"

"Mm. You need a  _man_  to satisfy you."

The Rivaini made his way down his pretty mage's body, lavishing especial attention on the little parts that he knew made her melt. She whimpered when he kissed the insides of her wrists; licked the contour of her slim belly; let his tongue venture dangerously close to the plump, hairless mound at the apex of her thighs.

 _I know best how to made you weak,_ thought Duncan as he dropped to his knees before her, bringing her leg over his shoulder.  _I was the man to give you your first kiss; to awaken the parts of your body devoted to pleasure. I gave you your first climax. My cock claimed that sweet virginal cunt._

_I've always held you like a woman, despite your tender years._

He could feel her trembling with anticipation even before he had set his mouth on her; her fingers seeking purchase on his shoulders as he inhaled the heat of her arousal. Wetting his lips in preparation, he reached up to part her folds with finger and thumb; laying her bare for him. The Warden-Commander took a moment to admire the succulent pink of her most intimate area; a stark contrast to the creaminess of the surrounding skin.

 _Delicious,_ he mused, pressing a thumb to her clitoris to feel it pulse.  _No wonder Mac Tir was driven to put his mouth between her legs. I doubt he's done that to anyone since the Guerrin girl, back in the heady days of youth._

Just then, Duncan felt a gentle nudge at the back of his head; an insistent little reminder that his lover was awaiting his attentions. With a soft chuckle, the Warden-Commander hastened to obey the request of his eager young recruit.

To begin, he kissed her cunt like a long-lost lover, tender and romantic, his tongue working languidly against her folds. Soft, featherlight kisses were interspersed with lengthy suckles and murmurs of endearment. He saved a special kiss for her throbbing clitoris, caressing it with the tip of his tongue.

A perspiring Flora groped blindly at the top of his head; even her commander's greeting was almost too much to take. She felt as though her legs might buckle beneath her, her bones and muscles turned to liquid through the skilful lapping of his tongue.

After greeting his lover's cunt with such tender affection, the greying Warden began the more serious business of pleasuring her. As he licked along her folds in long, desirous strokes, his thumbs massaged circles into her buttocks; caressing the tiny pinprick nestled between them. Above him came a series of whimpers, increasingly ragged as she lost control of all logic and reason.

"This gorgeous little pearl ought to be worshipped," he murmured, pressing a tender kiss to her clitoris before suckling it gently. "Look how desperately it throbs for me. Do you want my cock, baby?"

She let out a strangled sound of assent and he chuckled; soft and throaty.

"Be patient,  _amira._ I'll give it to you as many times as you desire, later on."

 _Alistair hasn't done this yet,_ the Rivaini thought, letting his tongue trace the outline of her pubic mound.  _Though she's had his cock in her mouth; and now they've rutted, there'll be no stopping him._

_He might even try and put his mouth between her legs tonight; so long as most of the others are asleep._

_I'm going to set the bar very high for the lad._

As Duncan's lips paid ardent attention to his lover's soft and hairless folds, his palms gripped her by the thighs; thumbs circling in slow, possessive circles. He could feel the muscles in her legs trembling and knew that soon she would no longer be able to stand.

"You are sweeter than honey," he murmured against her thigh, brushing his lips over the sweaty skin. "I could spend all day devouring you,  _amira._ My favourite distraction."

Flora let out a strangled whimper, her fingers flailing at his shoulders. He grinned into her, kissing her once more between the legs with tender affection. Even as his lips worked her throbbing pearl, two broad and calloused fingers – more used in recent times to gripping the hilt of a sword – pushed their way inside her; beginning a languid, yet purposeful stroke.

Sensing that his lover was becoming increasingly unstable on her feet, Duncan drew her leg more firmly over his shoulder; gripping her knee with his free hand. She bowed forward over him like a wilting flower, soft and incoherent noises escaping her throat.

"Do you need to come,  _zahra_?" he asked her throatily, easily able to interpret the desperate whimpers as portents of climax. "Mm, this hasn't taken long. You must have been desperate."

Flora was beyond the point of offering coherent response, the pleasure building up in waves within her like growing storm swells. Her pelvis was arched towards the source of stimulation, the back of her head pressed against the wooden partition; her world shrunk to the delicate and precise attentions of her commander's tongue. An entire unit of Darkspawn could have marched past at that moment and she would have paid them no heed whatsoever.

Duncan had just begun to work his tongue inside her when he felt her convulse beneath him; thighs quivering as the muscles of her pelvis contracted in pulses of pleasure. He heard Flora whimper in helpless throes above him, her fingers clutched desperately at his shoulders. Gripping his young mage's hips to keep her in place, he continued to devour her; lapping at her without pause through her first climax so that she might enjoy a second.

After his recruit had gasped her way through a second peak of pleasure, the Warden-Commander considered coaxing out a third. He was sorely tempted – she tasted sweeter than honeycomb from  _Seere_ – but finally decided against it. As much as he would have liked to stay within the wash-tent and continue their amorous congress, he had several unavoidable obligations to fulfil that afternoon.

As he mentally ran through his list of duties, Flora stood puffing, pink-faced and dizzy at his side. Gripping her by the hand, Duncan guided her to sit at a low wooden bench. She immediately bent forwards over her knees in unladylike manner, long skeins of crimson hair dangling like seaweed. The Warden-Commander seated himself beside her, the wood creaking beneath him. He spread a palm over her shoulder-blades, admiring the unbroken, creamy ripeness of the skin.

"Ooh," she croaked eventually, the words muffled through the loose curtain of her hair. "You're so  _good_ at that. How did you learn to be so good?"

Duncan chuckled, shifting himself on the bench to accommodate his erection.

"I've been pleasuring women for nearly twice your years, young sister. I pride myself on the skill of my tongue. And, besides- "

He reached between her legs and petted her affectionately, pleased at how readily she parted her thighs in response.

" – this sweet little cunt is a delight to please."

Flora smiled shyly from the corner of her mouth, darting a swift glance at him from beneath loose tendrils of hair. Struck by sudden impulse, the Rivaini reached out and put an arm around her shoulders; drawing her close against his side.

"Have you been eating your fill at the lunch tent,  _amira?_ You need a little more meat on your bones now that you're outside the Circle. Fereldan autumns are cold and dreary."

"I eat like a pig," Flora admitted, solemnly. "I don't know why I don't look like one. I  _should_  be ball-shaped."

Duncan laughed, then kissed the top of her head impulsively; taking a quick inhalation of the campfire smoke scent of her hair.

"Nothing wrong with having a healthy appetite,  _amira,"_ he murmured, keeping his face to her hair. "Your days are exhausting."

 _As are her nights,_ the commander mused to himself, thinking on their more recent sexual marathons.

Duncan awoke from his reverie to see Flora pulling on her misshapen woollen coat; unravelling at the sleeves and far too big, it was clearly a garment she had been donated from the Warden surplus. She was humming to herself as she tried to – rather ambitiously - coax her hair back into some semblance of a braid. Rather than be offended at Duncan's slide into daydream, she had occupied herself with getting dressed. As one who had grown up among the taciturn villagers of Herring, Flora was wholly comfortable with silence.

" _Qalbi,"_ the Warden-Commander spoke into the shadows, then reached out a strong arm to draw his mage onto his knee. Flora put her own slender arm around his neck and smiled at him, in the faintly distant way that meant that something  _else_  – something from beyond the Veil – was whispering in the back of her skull.

"I ought to go and find something to do," she breathed, nudging a delicate finger at the gold ring looped through Duncan's earlobe. "I might go to the infirmary and see if there's anyone I can mend. I ran out of patients yesterday."

Duncan admired her face in profile: the elegant line of the nose, the high brow, the cheekbones cutting at angles that spoke of decades of fine breeding. It was a refined profile that was oddly incongruous with the soft, lowborn cadence of her voice.

"Alright,  _amira,"_ he replied, gravely. "I too have less enjoyable duties to attend to – you were a most welcome diversion."

Flora smiled at him, then leaned forward to kiss him three times in rapid succession; her lips branding affection onto his bearded jaw, cheek, and mouth in turn. Duncan embraced her in return, tight and suddenly reluctant to let her go; disguising the sudden surge of emotion by growling into her neck. She giggled and made a feeble attempt to escape, writhing on his lap in a way that made him even  _less_  amenable to the idea of releasing her.

"Keep wriggling like that, my petal, and I'll have no choice but to put my cock in you," he grunted against her collarbone; at which she gave a squeak of delight and began to grind herself with lusty purpose against his stiffening shaft.

" _Yes pleeeease!"_

Unfortunately, the arrival of a pink-cheeked steward with a request from Cailan put a decisive end to any amorous activities. Reluctantly, the Warden-Commander took his leave from his red-headed distraction and made his way towards the king's tent.


	48. An Unexpected Coupling

As Duncan headed off in the direction of Cailan’s encampment, Flora fastened the last button on her shapeless woollen jacket and peered out into the late afternoon mist. Sunset arrived early in the Southron Hills, and the light was already fading above the low peaks to the west. The twin towers of Ishal and Durban, which stood at the eastern and western points of the fortress, stood out stark like chiding fingers against the murky skies. 

 Flora wandered down through the rows of tents, with no particular goal or destination in mind. Although she was not carrying her staff, and there were no other particular markings that gave away her profession as a mage, she earned her fair share of second glances and surreptitious looks. Some of these could be ascribed to the fact that the red headed Warden was a pretty girl amidst dreary surroundings, but most were to do with her burgeoning reputation as a mender. However, _spirit healers_ were viewed with even more suspicion than ordinary mages, since they enjoyed a closer relationship with the denizens of the Fade.

 The stoic Flora ignored the stares. She had been the object of scrutiny for the majority of her life, either for her looks, her pauper’s accent, or the oddly limited nature of magic. Aside from their curiosity, there was a sense of general restlessness in the camp. It had been nearly ten weeks since the first troops had arrived at the ancient Tevinter fortress and this heralded Blight-invasion had not manifested. Patrols and expeditions reported the usual numbers of Darkspawn wandering the swamps; mutterings were beginning to emerge that perhaps there was _no_ Blight after all, and maybe it was just an excuse for the king to seek glory outside the high walls of Denerim. Flora also ignored these muttered grumblings. She trusted her commander implicitly, and had no reason to doubt the direness of his predictions.

 Her first intention was to head to the infirmary tent, but the route was blocked by a gaggle of Templars setting up the route for the daily Chantry procession. The captain, who knew of Flora’s magical inclination, shot her a dirty look before bluntly instructing her to go elsewhere. Flora, irrationally terrified that the man might Tranquilise her on the spot, promptly scuttled off.

Determined to find some way to visit the infirmary tent later on, Flora decided to first pay heed to the demands of her stomach. She made her way to the kitchens, avoiding a group of dwarves clutching steaming bowls of stew, and retrieved two pears and a hunk of coarsely leavened bread.

Biting into the first pear, Flora wandered back towards the main thoroughfare of the camp. This cobbled, sloping roadway wended its way from the army barracks, through the Grey Warden camp, all the way up to the royal encampment. Most of the time, it was crowded with returning patrols, scuttling squires, and wagons of assorted size; yet each evening, just as sunset arrived, the thoroughfare would rapidly clear.

This was due to the daily Chantry procession, where Mother Rohesia and her subordinates would tread the cobbles in stately manner. The women would swing incense philtres as lay-brothers carried lit candelabras alongside them; lines from the Chant tangling together as their voices echoed amidst the ruins.

Flora did not usually watch the procession, it was the same every evening. However, since she had a vested interest in learning when the procession was over – she wanted to seek out the infirmary tent – she decided to find a surreptitious place to watch. She did not want to be within sight of the terrifying Mother Rohesia, and so found a discrete balcony upon which to secrete herself. A millennia ago, there might have been some small temple or shrine located in this tucked-away corner; now, it was merely a collection of shadowy, half-crumbled pillars.

Flora was more than happy to lurk in the gloom, since it meant that she was hidden from the suspicious glares of the Templars. She leaned forward on a broken stub of pillar, watching the procession of grave-faced Chantry brethren make their way along the cobbles below. Their candles left bobbing trails of light in their wake; the verses of the Chant swallowed by encroaching darkness.

As Flora watched the procession below, a man’s hand slid into her woollen jacket from behind, cupping her bare breast leisurely in a sword-calloused palm. She barely had time to take a startled breath before a second hand joined the first; lifting her other small breast as though weighing a ripe mango at market. Thumbs sought out her nipples and began to move in gentle circles, teasing the sensitive peaks to stiffness.

Flora inhaled unsteadily, delighted that Duncan had come to seek her out. She could feel his broad, masculine presence behind her; a muscular frame that did not hesitate in crowding her up against the pillar. She could also feel the distinct press of clothed male arousal against her buttocks; an impressive erection already tenting the fabric.

“Yes,” she whispered, closing her eyes in pleasure as strong fingers openly fondled her breasts. “Mm, _please._ I thought you were busy.”

The folds of the woollen jacket fell open, exposing the girl’s pretty breasts to the night air. To compensate for the sudden chill, Flora’s illicit groper fondled her with increased vigour; rolling her nipples between finger and thumb before administering teasing pinches. He cupped her breasts as though they belonged to him; massaging them together before bouncing the little peaks in his palms.

Flora’s soft gasps of encouragement, combined with the stiffening of the raspberry pink nipples, were all that was needed to embolden the man behind her. One hand withdrew from her jacket, cupping her possessively between the legs. He squeezed her through the fabric, admiring the raw heat pulsing from her core.

“Touch me,” Flora begged her commander, unashamed by her own need. “Please. I want you so badly.”

The man behind her was more than happy to oblige; tugging her breeches and smallclothes down to her knees in unceremonious haste. The same sword-calloused fingers began to caress the soft, hairless flesh of Flora’s mound; admiring the plump ripeness of her burgeoning womanhood. Even as the other hand crept down to stroke a forefinger through her folds, the first hand could not bring itself to stray far from the peachy swell of hairless flesh. Flora, panting and slick with arousal, readily parted herself to allow him easier access. She had already heard a belt being loosened and trousers hastily dropped; moments later, a warm cockhead nudged between her thighs, seeking its sheath.

“So fucking soft,” came Loghain’s growl in her ear, one long and well-worn forefinger slipping neatly inside the startled girl to prepare her. “A wanton minx with a shaved-clean cunt. Fucking beautiful.”

 As a pink-cheeked Flora let out a squeak of surprise, the wily general began to work the veined length of his cock inside her. The thick and unwieldy shaft stretched her in the most delicious way; her tender slit struggling to accommodate his girth.

 “You _tricked_ me,” Flora half-gasped, caught between indignation and arousal. “Ooh! I thought you were Duncan.”

 Mac Tir smiled, a dark edge to his thin-lipped grin.  Despite her protests, the little redhead had leaned forward against the pillar and spread her thighs more widely to ease the penetration. He worked his cock in inch by exquisite inch, savouring the noise of her occupied folds.

 “I didn’t have enough time this morning to properly appreciate this hairless cunt,” Loghain muttered irritably, cupping his warm, heavy sac in a palm. “I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

 The general was referring to a brief encounter the two had shared that morning before she had left on dawn patrol. While waiting for the other soldiers, Loghain had taken Flora into the ruins of a nearby gatehouse and pulled down her trousers, recalling Duncan’s declaration that he was going to shave her. The sour-faced northerner spent several minutes caressing her fleshy mound with a calloused finger while she rubbed at his cock through his under-armour; until their activities were interrupted by the arrival of the others.

 Flora let out a constricted gasp in response, her head hanging low as she braced herself against the broken pillar. She could feel the weight of the general pressing against her rear; one of his hands spread across her belly to keep her in place, the other directing the length of his shaft inside her. Even if Loghain had kept up the silent charade, she would now have been able to identify him, since thick, pulsing veins blossomed along the length of his manhood. The general’s cock had a certain _feel_ as it sunk into her; distinct from Duncan’s girth or Alistair’s impressive length.

 “Do you want me to stop, lass?” the greying northerner muttered in her ear, now almost fully sheathed within her. “I’ll leave you in peace if you wish, though this little cunt seems happy enough.”

 “Don’t,” Flora whispered, pushing her hair away from her face as she peered over her shoulder. “Don’t stop-”

 As she spoke, he shoved himself inside her to the hilt; a grunt of reluctant pleasure escaping his throat as she gasped.

 “You take my cock well, girl,” the general murmured, leaning back to survey his veined length sunk up to the sac between her thighs. “Maker, you’re _dripping.”_

 Flora hid her blushing face from him, embarrassed at how readily her body responded to the irritable old northerner. There was a raw, inexplicable – almost _animal_ – attraction between them that she was helpless to ignore.

 “Please,” she whispered, pink-cheeked and needful. “I need you.”

 There was no pretence that this was lovemaking; Loghain did not have the time or inclination for foreplay. Duncan bedded her like a woman, all sensual kisses and expert caresses coaxing her towards climax. Alistair had taken her with clumsy, endearing enthusiasm, delight and disbelief writ across his face.

 The general, on the other hand, rutted Flora like an animal; thrusting into her with the single-minded determination of a Mabari on heat. Each stroke of his veined cock was hard and purposeful; accompanied by grunts from deep in his throat. Flora whimpered helplessly beneath him, dazed by the waves of pleasure rippling within her core. Desire ran molten through her veins; she was aware of nothing but the relentless thrust of the old soldier’s shaft.

 They changed position, withdrawing deeper into the shadows. Flora found herself on her hands and knees on the damp earth, eagerly awaiting the welcome press of his cockhead against her folds. When this did not immediately follow, she glanced anxiously over her shoulder; only to see the lean, sinewy muscle of the general’s battle-scarred body as he pulled off the restricting pieces of his armour.

 The moment that he was unclothed, he sunk to his knees and angled his cockhead against her; Flora let out a little whine of relief as she was mounted by the old soldier, bracing her palms against the earth in anticipation of resumed thrusting.

 “I haven’t taken off my armour to rut a lass in decades,” muttered Loghain in her ear, hoarse and incredulous. “Why do I always have to be Maker-naked with you?”

 Flora had no idea, but was past the point of forming coherent replies. She arched her back and lifted her rear towards him, encouraging the thrust of his cock. As he resumed his rhythm, she felt his desirous thumb tracing the edge of her pinprick pucker.

 “You like taking it in this manner, don’t you?” he grunted, sac slapping between her thighs as his buttocks pumped up and down.

 Flora did not know whether he meant taking it on all fours like a Mabari, or having someone penetrate her in the rear. Since she liked both – very much – she gave a breathless squeak of agreement.

 Loghain then clarified his query by wetting his forefinger with saliva and pushing it within her pucker, right up to the second knuckle. A startled moan of pleasure tore from Flora’s throat, she peered over her shoulder in a vain effort to see what he was doing.

 “How often does the Rivaini take you here?” he asked, slowing the rhythm of his cock to watch how eagerly she took his finger.

 “Every other night,” she whispered, blushing at the frequency.

 “And you enjoy it, lass?”

 She let out a squeak of agreement, letting her head hang low as strands of damp crimson hair clung to her cheeks. Loghain grinned savagely, withdrawing his finger and resuming the brutal snap of his hips. His cock plunged into her once again, unspent sac slapping against her thighs.

 “If I’d oil on me, I’d claim that tight little ass now,” he muttered, the words emerging between grunts as Flora let out a longing whimper: “I should have known that you had such _particular_ interests. I’ve never met a lass who enjoyed being spanked as much as you.”

 Flora blushed; for she could not deny it. Loghain had paddled her eager rear during their rutting the previous day, but it had become somewhat of a nightly ritual for her and her commander. Duncan would stroke himself with a leisurely fist as she recounted in detail what she had done with either Alistair or Loghain earlier that day. He would then put her over his knee, pull down her breeches and spank her ripe young buttocks until she was sobbing with pleasure.

 “I really want you to take me there,” she whispered, imagining how Loghain’s veined shaft would feel as it penetrated her tiny pucker. “Promise that you will, soon. I’ll touch myself thinking about it tonight.”

 Loghain let out a strangled groan, a half-wild look passing across his face. He let his weight bear her down onto the dusty ground, lying on top of his young lover as his buttocks pumped above her thighs. The sex had now been reduced to raw, animalistic fucking; the two northerners rolled about in a sweaty tangle on the earth, locked in mutual lust. Their only thoughts were on how next to combine their most intimate parts; she rode him joyfully for several minutes, then he thrust her down and mounted her, then she rolled over and wrapped her legs around her waist. They kissed only once, but it was hard, and passionate, and neither one wanted it to end.

 He came with a snarl of frustration; she suckled frantically at his cock, lavishing it with attention from her rejuvenative tongue. The moment that the thickly veined shaft sprung upwards from its nest of fading curls, the young mage climbed into his lap and guided it within her. Spreading her palms on his battle-scarred shoulders, Flora immediately began to bounce up and down, letting out squeaks of delight.

 A short while later, when the energy of both had been drained, Loghain leaned back against a crumbling wall in an attempt to catch his breath. He watched her as she fanned herself with an ineffectual hand, her hair falling in decadent tangles to her waist. Flora noticed his stare, blushed; and dropped her eyes to the ground, looking around for her clothing.

 Loghain reached down to button up his under-trousers, his thoughtful Mac Tir gaze still set unblinking on her.

 “I desire you because you’re fucking beautiful,” he said, with northern bluntness. “I’ve not seen a lass like you in – Maker knows how long. But I’m at a loss to explain why _you_ desire me. I’ve no sweet words for you, nor any affection to spare. Every man in this sodding camp is fairer of face than I.”

 Flora nodded solemnly, and her agreement made Loghain snort.

 “I can’t… I can’t explain it,” she replied gravely, her brow furrowed in thought. “I don’t know if it’s because you’re from the north, too – it reminds me of _home_ when you speak. But my body wants you, badly.”

 Loghain grunted, well aware of this. He had never known her folds to be dry; finding them to be wet and pliant each time that he put his fingers between her legs.

 “Well, I’m glad of it,” he retorted, gruffly. “Whatever the reason.”

 Flora shot him a vague smile, pulling up her breeches and pulling the belt through to its tightest notch. Even this was too loose, the material sagging around her hips. Loghain strode over, retrieving the dagger he always kept at his waist. Lifting the end of the leather belt, he directed the point of the dagger through the thick material; swivelling the hilt to create a new notch.

 “Did this belt once belong to a fucking dwarf?” he muttered, withdrawing the dagger after inspecting his handiwork. “Your commander ought to clad his recruits adequately.”

 Flora gave an ambivalent shrug in response, retrieving her blouse and winding her arms through the sleeves. Loghain continued to watch her closely, pausing in the fastening of his breastplate. She was humming something tunelessly to herself; a scrap of melody that the general half-recognised.

 “I’ve some pickled anchovies from the north coast in my tent,” he said, simultaneously annoyed by the impulsiveness of his suggestion. “Do you want to come back and try them?”

 For a moment she looked sorely tempted; the solemn, lovely face twisting with longing. However, Flora was a girl who always listened to the voice of moral obligation – especially when it was augmented by the quiet nudge of Compassion – and so she shook her head, gravely.

 “I need to go to the infirmary,” she replied, earnestly. “To see if I can mend anyone.”

 “As you wish,” retorted the general snidely, irritated at his own disappointment.

 “Mm!”

 


	49. The Fire

The evening was beginning to settle upon Ostagar in earnest now, tendrils of pale mist rolling down the slopes and creeping sly fingers into the cracks of the crumbling fortress. Autumn nights in Ferelden had few redeeming qualities; unless you were a northerner who relished drizzle and dampness. Overheard, the faint ghosts of stars were just visible in the depths of a murky and colourless sky.

Flora, in her element in such conditions, trotted contentedly through the camp as most others scuttled towards the tent. She made her way along the crowded terraces, avoiding cursing soldiers and erratically stationed wagons; hopping over guy-ropes and the various paraphernalia that accompanied an encamped army.

"Mage, can't you make the sun come out and the rain go away?" muttered an ill-tempered soldier as he trudged past her, mud splattered across his battered armour. "I'm fed up of it pissing it down all the time."

"I like rain," replied Flora solemnly, whose honesty earned her a derisive stare and a contemptuous wad of spittle directed to the damp earth.

The soldier and his partner trudged off before she could explain that – regardless of her personal opinion – she could no more change the weather than she could summon the Empress of Orlais.

Flora was more than used to strange looks, since she had received them incessantly during her four year tenure at the Circle. She headed towards a set of wide, crumbling steps, which led down to the terrace where the infirmary tent had been set up. As she navigated the treacherous stair, her mind turned to the third – and most recent – of her lovers.

_I wonder what Alistair has been doing today? I think he was supervising some new recruits._

Flora felt guilty for spurning his advances that morning – her obligation to dawn patrol always took precedence – and wondered how she could make it up to him.

 _I'll say that he can try anything he wants with me,_ she thought to herself, pleased with the swiftness of the idea.  _Or I'll do anything he wants to him._

_I've missed him today._

The young mage continued onwards, ducking her head as she approached a pair of Templars. Usually, the Chantry soldiers would spare her a suspicious glower as they passed; on this occasion, they hurried right by her as though she were invisible, harried expressions writ across their faces. Confused but simultaneously relieved, Flora wandered on past a set of broken columns, which rose from the fragmented tiles like a row of jagged teeth.

Just as she was about to descend the steps that led down onto the infirmary terrace, there rose a minor commotion behind her. Booted feet slammed in rapid staccato against stone; voices rose in harsh-edged warning.

"Out of the way, girl!"

The astonished Flora flattened herself against the stone balustrade, turning to see a different set of Templars hurrying towards her. She felt a moment of panic – no mage wanted to see Templars rushing in their direction – but noticed seconds later that they were carrying a makeshift stretcher between them. A man clad in the cream and scarlet robes of a lay-brother was lying on the stretcher, groaning as he clutched a pair of heavily burnt hands to his chest.

"Whaa," said Flora, astonished. "What's happened. Wait! Bring him back! I can mend- "

But, it was too late. Ignoring her plea, the Templars had carted their whimpering patient off in the direction of the infirmary tent. Flora made as though to follow and then paused, her head swivelling in the direction that they had hurried from.

As she made her way back up to the top of the steps, her nostrils began to itch with the distinctive prickle of smoke. Raising her gaze above the crumbling ruins, Flora could see a column of dark grey rising from a structure fifty yards to the east. The column gleamed deep red on the inside; it was at once sinister and strangely captivating. Flora did not know the camp well enough to identify the building that was ablaze, but she recognised the terrace from which it rose.

_That's the Chantry camp._

As she neared the terrace colloquially known as  _Maker's Mount,_ Flora found herself weaving her way around curious onlookers. These were mostly soldiers or off-duty servants; many of them only somewhat sober. The occasional noble stood amidst the crowd, gawping inelegantly up at the billowing mass of smoke overhead. Flora nudged her way through the crowd, abandoning her muttered  _'scuse me's'_ when it became obvious that nobody was listening. The smell of smoke grew stronger by the second; even at a distance, the acrid prickle was starting to irritate her throat.

Flora first heard the fire just as her eyes began to water. A crackling louder and more malevolent than any brazier filled the air; accompanied by the occasional rush of sparks. She wiped her face on her sleeve, ducking around a cluster of muttering dwarves. Embers flew in the sky overheard like birds, shooting outwards in erratic directions from their burning nest. Shouts and yells were drowned out by the roar of flame; though the distinctive bellowing of the Templar commander was just audible above the din.

At last, Flora managed to work her way to the front of the crowd, elbowing her way past a group of open-mouthed liveried servants. The wall of heat hit her like something physical and she took a step backwards; taken aback by the intensity. Her startled inhalation drew in smoke and she coughed, wiping ineffectually at her streaming eyes with a damp sleeve.

A scene of pure hellish chaos unfolded itself before her; like one of the doom paintings spread in lurid mural across the walls of provincial Chantries. A squat, four story tower rose like a blazing beacon from a tangle of twisted metal; flames erupting from the windows at every level. Smoke billowed upwards in a red-hued column, acrid and oddly perfumed. Scorched fragments of Chantry banners still clung determinedly to the outside of the tower, though even these were beginning to smoulder and catch alight.

It took Flora several moments to recognise the blazing tower, despite having been up to the  _Maker's Mount_ with Duncan only the previous. Once her mind had managed to match memory with the skeletal inferno before her, Flora identified the tower as one used by the Chantry for storage.

"Why's it burnin' so fierce?" she heard a dwarf mutter beside her, bemusement writ across his soot-blackened face. "It's just rock, innit?"

"There's gallons of lamp oil, incense and sacred wine in there," breathed a nearby servant, clad in crimson livery. "As well as all their ceremonial linens. Place is a tinder-box."

This explained the strangely perfumed smoke. Suddenly, there came the sound of an explosion from within the tower; white-hit flame belched forth from a blackened window. The crowd outside flinched, and then recoiled further as a floor gave way inside; the contents crashing down within the burning structure.

"Mother Rohesia will be  _spitting,"_ added the crimson-clad servant, awestruck. "Place was worth a bloody fortune."

"Mother Rohesia's got bigger things to worry about, Ed," chimed in another servant in similar colours, his eyes excited and appalled in equal measure. "She's  _inside."_

This explained the cluster of Chantry officials bemoaning their fate and wringing their hands off to one side. Several sisters were weeping copiously, others were offering loud and desperate prayers to the Maker, muddying their knees in the dirt. One irritating lay-brother was exalting how Mother Rohesia was channeling the fate of Andraste, and would be made a  _most holy martyr._

Flora turned her attention away from the Chantry dramatics, focusing on the stream of activity on the other side of the terrace. The soldiers of the Royal Army had formed an organised line, passing buckets of water hand-in-hand towards the inferno. Loghain was at their head, snarling expletives with soot stains coating his usually-pristine armour; one of the braids at his ears unravelling in the heat. Unfortunately, their efforts were quite obviously in vain – the small splashes of water evaporated in billowing steam as soon as they made contact with the superheated stone.

Flora gazed at the soldiers' valiant and ineffectual attempts to extinguish the inferno; then noticed Duncan standing a little way back from the flames, regret creasing across his wearied face. The Warden-Commander had clearly recognised the futility of the soldiers' efforts; fuelled by oil, incense and flammable cloth, the fire had seized ownership of the tower. The brilliant gold of his earring flashed in the firelight like a winking eye. He had not yet noticed Flora amidst the crowds; his dark Rivaini gaze was focused on the blaze before him.

A lay-brother shuffled past, tears coursing liberally down his face as he headed towards his peers. Flora reached out and caught his sleeve; he gaped at her in indignation and astonishment.

"Unhand me, mage!"

"Where was Mother Rodent in the tower?" Flora asked, canting her head up at the blazing turret. "What part was she in?"

" _Mother Rodent?!_ Disrespectful wench!"

Flora grimaced; she had never been very good with names. Herring natives tended to have simple names of one syllable – maximum,  _two_ – and anything longer was deliberately shortened. Her own brother-warden Alistair had needed to coach her in the pronunciation of his name; for some reason, he did not like her nickname of  _Alice._

"Sorry. Mother Ro-  _Rosh- Rohaha- "_

" _Exalted Mother Rohesia,_ Maker claim her soul, was going to the treasury-chamber at the back of the ground floor. Beloved Mother! She was surely desiring to organise some charitable alms for the poor soldiers."

"Hm," said Flora doubtfully, recalling the greed gleaming in the old woman's eyes when counting the coin in the Chantry tent. "Ground floor in the back? Thank you."

The lay-brother stumbled off with a groan towards his weeping brethren. Flora looked down at her own small, innocuous hand, soot staining the skin and nails bitten to the quick. As she watched, a gleaming shimmer rose from the flesh like a  _second_ skin; gilded and ethereal, moulding to the curl of her fingers as she flexed them.

Meanwhile, thirty yards away, the soldiers with the water-buckets had just scattered in the face of falling, burning debris. Another exploding barrel of lamp-oil from within the tower had spat rock and blazing wood down to the earth below. Loghain, dropping his water-bucket, had lunged forward to knock a flaming chunk of wood away from the unprotected head of his junior officer. The general then recoiled, spitting out a harsh string of Fereldan curses as he clutched his burnt hands to his chest.

"Get your men away from that tower," the Warden-Commander called, shielding his face from a fall of white-hot embers. "It's a death trap. There's no saving it."

Loghain coughed, his eyes streaming from both smoke and soot. His retort, when it came, was equally harsh; a burnt finger lifting over Duncan's shoulder.

"Get your  _mage_ away from that tower!"

Duncan's blood curdled in his veins; a chill ran down his spine despite the sweat, the smoke and the heat that embroiled him. He turned, quick as a rattlesnake, just in time to see Flora picking her way around the chunks of fallen debris. She was almost at the entrance of the blazing tower; which was no longer a doorway, but a gateway to some hellish realm. It belched out tongues of white-hot flame, rolling forth smoke in a grotesque welcome. At first, the Rivaini thought that she was protected only by her shapeless woollen coat; as his eyes adjusted to the light, he realised that her shield was pulsing around her like something organic, the gilded magic blending into the hues of flame.

" _Flora,"_ Duncan found himself saying in shock, then repeated it in a bellow of unprecedented volume.  _"FLORA! Get back!"_

Flora paused for a moment, grimaced, flailed her fingers in apology – and then stepped forwards into the doorway. The flame distorted itself around her slender body; pushed back at unnatural angles by the barrier moulded to her body. Then, a heartbeat later, she had vanished; consumed by the belly of the blazing tower

"Well, fuck," said Loghain, astonished. "Silly girl."

Duncan could say nothing in response; he could find find no words in either the Rivaini or the Fereldan tongue to express how he felt in that moment. He stared at the blazing doorway, aware that stepping within would be suicide and yet desperate to charge forwards and drag his  _qalbi_ out of the inferno.

"Don't be a fool," snarled the general, his eyes red and watering from the acrid smoke. "If anyone can survive in there, it's her."

The interior of the tower was barely recognisable as a structure once built by human hand. It was now chaotic realm of flame and smoke and mangled furniture; tapestries blazed as though they had been dipped in tar, Chantry robes smouldered on their twisted iron frames. The metal joints of chest bookcases had melted, though the furniture they had once held together was now charred and smoking. The flagstones themselves were splintering in the heat, each one letting out a deafening crack as they split. Flame raged joyfully around the walls; fuelled to greater height and heat by the spilled lamp-oil. Black smoke billowed throughout the constricted space; cloaking everything in a toxic, blinding miasma.

Encased within her amorphous shimmer, Flora could feel the heat as a faint prickle on her skin. To her relief, the smoke seemed unable to permeate the gleaming shield; unfortunately, it also made it exceptionally difficult to  _see._

_I can't see anything! I'm as BLIND as a bottom-feeding fish!_

_Ooh, smoked haddock. I really want some smoked haddock!_

_**Can you focus on the task before you?** _

_I can't see before me! Or behind me, or to the side of me…_

_**Use your light.** _

Flora held up her hand, watching the second skin of her shield shimmer against her flesh; moving like oil on water. A sudden surge of especially brilliant light sprung up between her fingers, ten times brighter than any man-made torch. The golden glow could not dissipate the smoke – Flora's flame was heatless – but it did illuminate it from within; lightening dense black to a strangely, misty grey.

Flora could now make out the delineation of where the main passageway in the tower had been; the separate chambers now cavernous mouths of flame. As she made her way down the corridor, she had the increasingly gloomy feeling that nobody would be able to survive such an inferno.

"Mother Ro- Ro –  _Rohoho?!"_ she called, her words immediately swallowed by the roar of the surrounding blaze. Tongues of fire licked across her shield as though testing its potency; they caused nothing more than a ripple across its gleaming surface.

 _ **Where was the treasury located?**_ Flora's spirits murmured, prompting her to search her memory for the lay-brother's words.

_At the back. Ground floor._

Flora continued to pick her way gingerly across the splintered flagstones; feeling the broken slabs shifting beneath her boots.

Suddenly, there came a great groan from overhead. A wooden ceiling beam, its brackets melted by the intense flame, came down in a rush of sparks.

_**Stay focused!** _

Flora gaped upwards, watching the blazing beam as it plummeted towards her. One charred end struck her shield, shattering into fragments of blackened wood. They scattered around the mage's feet, smouldering and smoking. Flora had felt little more than a light tap against her shoulder; her shield easily absorbing the force of the blow.

_Hurray!_

_**Good girl. Now keep going.** _

There were several more surprises in store before Flora reached the back chamber. A barrel of lamp oil exploded as she passed by; the contents igniting with a pulse of white-hot flame. Wooden shrapnel flew outwards in all directions, peppering against her shield like a volley of tiny darts.

" _Eeeeee!"_

_**Calm yourself.** _

Flora took a deep gulp of air, forcing her frantic heart to slow its reckless pace. She had not particularly  _enjoyed_  the exploding oil-barrel or the falling ceiling beam; but she was confident in the ability of her spirits to keep her safe and so she pressed forwards.

Moments later, a spectre with a melting golden face reared up out of the fumes towards her, arms outstretched in ghastly embrace. Flora squeaked and recoiled, only to realise that it was a statue of Andraste. Her gilded face was rolling away in droplets beneath the extreme heat, the corners of her mouth drooping open.

 _The real Andraste was burnt to death, wasn't she?_ thought Flora, not the most pious of individuals.

_**Yes.** _

_Ooh. AWKWARD!_

There came a distinctly exasperated noise from somewhere in the depths of her skull. Flora took this as a sign that she ought to continue. Beads of perspiration were beginning to form on her forehead; she had now been immersed in the inferno for almost a quarter-candle.

Peeling a strand of sweaty hair from her cheek, she made her way determinedly forwards. An entrance manifested before her, solid and incongruous amongst the rest of the wooden doorways. Flames licked at the door frame but the metal itself still appeared relatively intact. Flora did not know what type of material it was, but it clearly had a much higher melting point than the rest of the tower's iron fixings.

 _Why don't they just make the whole tower out of this fireproof stuff?_ Flora wondered, rather stupidly.

_**Too impractical. And expensive.** _

_Oh. This is the treasury entrance though, isn't it?_

_**Yes.** _

Flora came to a halt before the door, which had a single keyhole near one edge. Naturally, the key was not there and the door itself was firmly shut. She bit at her lip, feeling sweat drip off her chin. She wished that she had not worn a woollen jacket; the entire garment clung unpleasantly to her perspiring shoulders.

_**Break the lock.** _

Flora obediently stuck the tip of her little finger inside the bulb of the keyhole. Her shield expanded outwards from her finger in a single pulse, shattering the components of the lock as though they were made of glass. The door gave a yielding creak, she gave it a tentative shove with her boot and it swung open.

Inside was a small chamber, completely encased in metal so that it resembled more vault than ordinary room. Sacks of coins were piled against every wall, so overfull that they were spilling their contents over the flagstones. The solid construction of the room had protected it from the smoke and flame, but the heat was intense and the ceiling beginning to buckle.

Flora gawped for a moment – she had only ever seen three gold coins in her life, each rare sighting a memorable occasion. She could not comprehend that such a vast quantity of money even  _existed._ Little did she know that the Chantry had been using their temporary quarters at Ostagar as a coin stash to avoid paying taxes to Denerim.

Still, as a Herring native who had been raised on bartering, coin had little value to Flora. She spared the sacks only a cursory glance before closing the door behind her and scuttling to the crumpled figure in the centre of the room.

Mother Rohesia was lying on the flagstones, a frail figure without the usual imposing hat and regalia. The skirts of her robes were charred and there was a nasty, raw pink burn on the back of her calf; other than that, Flora could see no physical injury. Hoping that the old woman had not succumbed to toxic inhalation, Flora dropped to her knees and rolled the priestess over. The skin stretched across Rohesia's bones seemed spidery and paper-thin; her cheeks were sallow and bloodless.

Flora was not discouraged by the old woman's slack face. She had revived half-drowned sailors on the beach at Herring with similar features. Putting her own face beside the old woman's mouth, she held her breath and closed her eyes. A moment later, Flora felt the faintest exhalation against her cheek.

The moment that she felt proof of the priestess' survival, Flora pressed her own mouth onto the old woman's dry lips and  _exhaled,_ feeling her own rejuvenative energies surge joyfully up through her throat. Golden tendrils soared into the priestess' mouth, curling themselves into Rohesia's skin and blossoming within her lungs; purifying the remnants of smoke that still clung to the flesh.

As the Chantry Mother spluttered and blinked, Flora sat back triumphantly on her heels. The old woman blinked, squinting blearily upwards into the gloom; her failing eyesight focusing on Flora's face. The redheaded Warden-recruit still had pearlescent beads of creation energy clinging to her lips; a trail of gilded mist running down her chin.

" _Heathen!"_ hissed Rohesia, flinging up a claw-like hand and striking the astonished Flora in the face. "Get away, mage!"

"Oi," replied the indignant Flora, reaching up to touch her lip where it had been bloodied by the priestess' signet tiny. "You ought to be nice to me. I'm  _rescuing_ you."

The priestess gained back a little more of her senses as she gazed about her, appalled. Crimson-tinged smoke was creeping beneath the door; the roar of flame audible even through the thick metal. The ceiling was buckling to a dangerous degree; unable to hold the weight of the two collapsed floors for much longer. Grim remembrance dawned as Rohesia recalled the events that had led her to seal herself in the treasury.

"Maker preserve me," she croaked, fright ageing her a further decade. "I have no desire to become a martyr such as Andraste, mage. Get us out of here, immediately."

Flora nodded, currently crouching over the old woman's burned calf. It was not her most elegant mending ever – the scorched flesh was knitted together with raw pink growth, the split skin hastily sealed – but she too was aware of the dangerously straining floorboards overhead.

"Alright," she mumbled, tongue still tingling from the afterglow of her magic. "Can you walk?"

The priestess reached out a commanding, wrinkled hand; Flora scrambled hastily upright before helping the old woman to her feet. Rohesia took one step before stumbling, grabbing in a panic at Flora's shoulder.

"I'll carry you," Flora said, realising that the unsteady old woman would prove a liability on her feet. "On my back."

The mage was only a handful of inches over five feet, but Rohesia was shorter still; her aged bones as frail as a bird. Flora's outer slenderness hid underlying sturdiness; she had spent her childhood hauling in fishing nets and dragging boats up over the tide-line. In addition, her Warden-enhanced blood loaned a strength of its own. Flora pretended that she was heaving a sack of fresh-caught haddock onto her back, grabbing at the old woman's legs as she shifted the weight onto her hips.

"Oof – ow- you're very  _dense."_

"Don't drop me, imbecile! Can't you just  _levitate_ me out?"

"What is  _levitate?"_

"Idiot!"

_**No time to waste.** _

Sweat dripped down Flora's face as she grew used to this additional weight on her back, taking slow and measured steps towards the door.

"Can't you grab a few of these coin-sacks on your way out, mage?"

Flora let out a Herring grunt that was decidedly in the negative; keeping her eyes fixed on the doorway. The smoke was billowing up around her knees now, fingers of sly flame edging around the frame. Her shield manifested around her, the spiderweb-thin golden sheath pulsing outwards to encase the Chantry Mother's frail frame.

She had to use a pulse of her shield to shove open the door, since the fixings had melded fast in place. The passageway beyond was barely recognisable; the corridor and chambers entirely engulfed in flame. From behind her ear, Flora heard Mother Rohesia suck in a panicked breath. The old woman murmured a fragment of unintelligible prayer, her fingers digging claw-like into the mage's shoulders.

Flora took a deep gulp and sputtered – even the air within her shield was now hot and acrid. Wishing that she had a hand free to wipe her streaming eyes, she looked about for some point of reference that would lead them back to the entrance. At last she spotted a lump of melted brass, identifying it as the statue of Andraste that had startled her earlier.

She began to pick her way towards the malformed statue, avoiding the debris scattered across the ground as best she could. This was a difficult task: the flagstones had  _become_ debris. After cracking in the heat, the jagged pieces erupted from the ground at treacherous angles.

Flora had not counted her paces from the entrance; with a sinking feeling, she realised that this might have been a sensible idea. Still, she reasoned that it could not be  _that_ far away – the tower was not that large.

The old woman at her back let out a hoarse croak, one finger lifting over Flora's shoulder.

"There, mage!  _There!"_

Sure enough, a faint rectangular outline was just visible through the smoke ahead. Flora took a single, laborious step towards it when there came a succession of dull, splintering noises overhead. The floor above could no longer support the weight of its collapsed neighbours. The rafters began to bulge downwards.

Flora looked up, her jaw dropping in dismay.

_Aieeee!_

_**Don't panic. Keep your focus.** _

She closed her eyes, feeling the shield knit itself more tightly around herself and the cowering old woman on her back. Seconds later there came a roar as part of the floor above collapsed, raining down chunks of charred wood and flaming debris. As before, Flora felt only the lightest of nudges as the wreckage glanced off her shield, crashing into piles of burning rubble at her feet.

_**Good girl.** _

Fortunately, only part of the ceiling overhead had collapsed. Unfortunately, it had transformed the pathway to the entrance into an impassable field of debris; rising far higher than Flora's head. Mother Rohesia let out a soft whimper of fright, murmuring increasingly desperate pleas to the Maker in Flora's ear.

_I can't reach the entrance._

_**Then make an exit.** _

Flora rotated herself sideways, to face what must have once been a side-chamber but was now a raw and blazing cavern. Faintly, through the smoke and writhing flame, she could see the stone exterior wall.

There was no time to waste. The remains of the ceiling overhead were making ominous creaking noises; the structure of the burning tower almost at the point of catastrophic collapse. Hoisting up the old woman higher on her back like a sack of fresh-caught fish, Flora lurched her way towards the exterior wall. The flames parted reluctantly before her shield, fighting her for every inch of territory yielded.

Finally, the mage came to a halt before the wall. It was squat and solid, a foot thick and constructed from Southron stone. Flora eyed it dubiously, brow creasing.

_It looks very… sturdy._

_**No time for doubt.** _

The Chantry Mother was clinging onto her so tightly that Flora felt able to release one of her legs, lifting up a hand and flexing her fingers. Feeling a little ridiculous, she spread her palm flat against the charred stone.

_Do I just – push?_

_**Yes. Do it now!** _

Flora, who was nothing if not obedient, gave a mental  _thrust._ Her shield sprung outwards in a wave of gilded brilliance; the wall broke open as though the slabs of Southron granite were wooden blocks, swatted away by some petulant child. Ostagar opened out before them in all its decrepit Tevinter glory; the crumbling ruins swathed with mist.

The  _suddenness_ of it all took Flora by surprise. A rush of cool night air hit her like a slap and she gaped, shocked at the contrast between the temperature outside and the heat on her back. The old woman dug her knees into Flora's ribcage and she stumbled forwards, away from the burning tower and into the damp of a Fereldan autumnal evening. As soon as she was out of the range of falling debris, the shield melted away in a shower of golden light, evaporating before it reached the mud.

_**Well done. That was good practice.** _

_For what?!_

_**The day may come where you need to shield against something far more powerful than mortal flame.** _

Before Flora could dwell on what her spirits had insinuated, there came shouts and cries of relief. The crowds gathered at the front of the tower had made their way around its circumference; drawn by the crash of stone. A chaotic mass of faces pressed in close, excitable chatter rising above the roar of the fire.

Rohesia shoved herself away from Flora, tottering towards the other priestesses and lay-brothers with her arms extended. The cries of relief were not intended for the mage, but for their Chantry Mother; who had miraculously walked clear of the inferno with no visible injury.

" _The Maker has preserved me!"_  the old woman called in tremulous voice, raising her eyes to the heavens. "It is a blessing and a sign!"

The priestess was enveloped in a crowd of sobbing and praying Chantry officials; many of whom were mouthing quavering prayers of gratitude.

Flora, left standing alone before the blazing tower, wiped at her streaming eyes with her sleeve. Since the woollen material was saturated with sweat, the salt only made the stinging worse. Grimacing, she closed her eyes and pressed her thumbs into them, hoping to stop their watering.

_Ow, oww._

Duncan, who had just passed the worst half-candle of time in living memory, had also followed the crowd of Chantry officials around the side of the tower. For several frustrating moments he was caught up in a gaggle of billowing robes and flapping priestesses, sorely tempted to elbow his way free. His heart was racing like a captured  _goshawk_ in a cage; he felt frail and light-headed in a way that a solidly-built man of his years should not be capable of feeling. He had barely taken note of anything that had been said to him, had even curtly brushed off Cailan in a way that surely would have had some repercussions in normal circumstances.

Then – not quite believing his own eyes – he caught sight of the  _cause_ of all this worry, Mother Rohesia, stationed like a queen bee amidst her colony. A chair had been summoned from somewhere; fresh wine was being offered in a silver chalice; cooling cloths were draped across the old lady's forehead.

"I felt the divine whisper of the Maker in my ear," the priestess was saying, supercilious and supremely confident. "He said:  _my precious child, 'tis not yet your time to join my side. Be assured: I have reserved a spot for you – in a most prominent position! – but it must remain vacant a while longer."_

"Praise be the Maker!"

In disbelief Duncan looked beyond the infuriating old woman, towards the still-blazing tower. Silhouetted against the crimson backdrop stood a slight figure, sweaty and bedraggled, her hair in dishevelment and ash smeared across her face. Flora was rubbing at her eyes with her thumbs, mouth open in slightly mindless manner; apart from a bloodied lip, she appeared entirely unharmed.

Duncan felt his heart constrict painfully in his chest, as though some ghostly figure had inserted sly fingers between his ribs and  _squeezed_ the pulsing organ. Without instruction his legs began to move, striding across the mud and earth to close the distance between him and her. Even now the Rivaini part of him was still stricken with dread:  _this could merely be some manifestation of her spirit, she could have perished within the flames and left this imprint of her soul on the waking world._

_I need to hold her._

Flora was still blinking and rubbing at her eyes with her sleeve when the Warden-Commander reached her. A startled squeak emerged from her throat as he gripped her by the arms; gloved fingers sinking deep into her elbows.

"Flora?"

His voice was harsh and raw-edged; it sounded like a stranger's. Flora peered nervously up at him, her instinctual pleasure at seeing her lover tempered by the recollection that she had disobeyed his instruction.

_Flora! Get back!_

_She had plunged into the building, in direct violation of his command._

"Are you hurt?" he demanded hoarsely, eyes searching Flora's smoke-smudged face before dropping to her clothing.

Flora shook her head, suddenly frightened of the repercussions of ignoring her commanding officer. As a child in Herring, disobedience had meant a beating; in the Circle, disobedience could lead to a fate worse than death.

"I'm sorry," she croaked, smoke clinging to her throat as she dropped a miserable gaze to her feet. "I dis- "

Before Flora could finish speaking, she found herself drawn roughly to his chest; enveloped so tightly within his arms that the air escaped her lungs in a startled gasp. A low, fervent murmur whispered over her hair; the words unintelligible to her. After a moment, she realised that he was speaking in his foreign tongue, offering thanks to deities and spirits that were not recognised by the Chantry.

"People are looking," she whispered once he had paused to take an unsteady breath. Flora was conscious that this embrace – unlike their many others - was not in private. "They'll see us."

"Let them see," he muttered back, pressing his lips to the tangle of sweaty hair atop her head. "I don't give a shit."

Duncan released her just far enough to take her head in his hands, palms cupping her cheeks to frame the grubby, ash-smudged fairness of her face. Her lip was bloodied and he brushed a thumb near it; tender and concerned.

" _Qalbi- "_

"Oh, I forgot," Flora mumbled, kindly deciding not to say that this was the result of Mother Rohesia, rather than the fire. "Mm, let me just - "

She ran her tongue over the swollen lip, leaving behind a faint smear of gold-tinged saliva. The cut inflicted by the priestess' spiked ring neatly sealed itself together, the swollen lip settling back into its usual plumpness. Duncan's thumb returned to caress the lower part of her mouth; the dark Rivaini eyes bruised with affection. Careless of the nearby gaggle of priestesses, he ducked his head and pressed a hard, swift kiss against her startled lips.

"By the Maker, love _,"_ the old Warden murmured, still reluctant to release her from the protective circle of his arms. "I fear I've aged several decades this evening. I'll have more grey hairs than Mac Tir."

Flora pulled an apologetic face, and he smiled down at her; light-headed with relief.

"Let's get you something to drink, and some clean clothing from the stores."

Before they left the vicinity of the blazing tower, Duncan cast a swift look over his shoulder at the chunks of Southron stone scattered over the mud. Each oblong boulder weighed as much as a loaded cart, and they had been flung onto the grass as though they were wooden blocks.

_She's far more powerful than her Circle tutors gave her credit for._

_Astonishing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops that's a lot of plot! XD Hehehe


	50. The Senior Wardens' Campfire

To Duncan's quiet fury, the obligations of his position meant that he was  _not_  able to do what he  _wanted_ to do – which was take Flora back to his tent, check her thoroughly for damage, and then encase her in a protective embrace for the rest of the night. On the one hand he was aware that such concern was unnecessary, since she had more than proven her competence and ability to look after herself. On the other, he had just passed one of the most traumatic periods of time in immediate memory. When the roof of the tower had come crashing down – with his  _qalbi_ inside – the Rivaini had genuinely lost his balance, clutching at the shoulder of a nearby servant. The colour had drained from his face, rich olive hues replaced with such a greyish pallor that those nearby had called for rejuvenating whiskey.

The senior wardens that had accompanied the day's scouting patrols were accustomed to reporting back in the evening; recanting what Darkspawn activity and numbers they had encountered during the day. Since they were a member of the Grey and not a soldier in the Royal Army, this was a relatively informal process. It did not involve desks or scribes, nor did it take place in a tent. Instead, the senior wardens would gather around the campfire, drink away the trials of the day, and then inform their commander of what they had seen. Duncan, who believed in few formalities other than the necessary rituals of the Joining, much preferred this manner of report. The Rivaini had no desire to be stuck behind a desk for hours each night.

However, Duncan also had no desire to see his mage part from him for a  _second_ time that evening. After she had found a garment in the clothing store that  _almost_  fit her – a grey tunic with unravelling sleeves, belted liberally at the waist – he kept her firmly at his side, steering her towards the senior wardens' campfire.

_It would be easier if she needed armour,_ the Warden-Commander thought to himself, darting a swift, sideways glance down at his lover as she trotted beside him. The woollen tunic hung to her knees – she was bare-legged beneath, since every pair of leggings had fallen down – and the material was already sliding from her shoulder.

_If she needed armour, I would have some made that fitted her._

_Yet she needs no protection other than what she herself can provide, and we're too short on resources to craft unnecessary garb._

The rest of the senior Wardens – a dozen in total – were already gathered about the fire when their commander arrived. A few were talking in low murmurs, but most were seated in silence, taking long draws from their bottles. Swords, shields and battleaxes were propped near their owners; a Warden did not survive long enough to reach senior rank without maintaining constant vigilance.

As Flora approached the campfire, she found her pace slowing. Her reticence, combined with Duncan's lengthy stride, meant that she inadvertently ended up several yards behind him. The warden-recruit was not sure how  _welcome_ she would be amongst the senior wardens. Already, curious and careworn eyes were lifting to the figure at their commander's side. Most of them  _recognised_ Flora – she was a constant fixture in Duncan's bed – but were unsure why she was now approaching their campfire.

The Warden-Commander noticed a moment later that his mage was no longer at his elbow. He paused, glanced to one side – she was not there, and his heart skipped – and then he caught sight of Flora, trailing in his wake. His dark stare settled on her, one eyebrow lifting to a fading hairline.

" _Amira,_  you will make me an old man.  _Older,"_ he added, in acknowledgement of his thirty years in seniority. "I beg you: no more running off."

"I'm not running off," she whispered, though her eyes were darting like a cornered  _halla._ "Should I… wait over there?"

"Over  _where?"_

Her finger lifted vaguely towards a toppled pillar, lying casually on the flagstones like it had been dropped there by some callous Tevinter god.

The creases on Duncan's brow deepened as he came to a halt, turning to face her. Flora gazed up at him, slightly anxious, the corners of her full mouth angled downwards. He reached out to cup her face, stroking the finely hewn planes of her cheekbones with his thumbs. There was a smear of ash on her nose; he brushed it away with a rueful smile.

_I keep forgetting that she's only nineteen and fresh from a Circle. She's barely sure of herself, let alone her place in the world._

"I won't have you hiding in the shadows,  _qalbi_ ," the Warden-Commander said, his voice low and firm. "You'll sit with me and have something to eat."

The prospect of food always perked Flora up and she visibly brightened. Duncan allowed himself a brief moment more to admire the grave beauty of his talented mage's face, then released her with a low sigh.

"Come on,  _zahra._ I can hear your stomach rumbling."

The rest of the senior wardens issued low murmurs of greeting to Duncan – there were no salutes, this was not the Royal Army – as he approached. Their curious gazes moved past their commander to the girl at his side, long-legged and nervy as a young doe _._

"Evenin', boss," offered a dwarf as Duncan lowered himself to the ground, moving with the fluidity of a far younger man. "Eh, did you see the fire on Maker's Mount? All that coin meltin' away like it were in some giant forge – the Chantry Mother must've been spittin'!"

"I did see it, yes," confirmed Duncan wryly, glancing sideways as Flora crossed her legs on the earth beside him. Even now, she had settled herself several inches back, half-submerged in shadow. "Come into the warm, Flora."

She shuffled forward on her rear, several more crimson strands seeking freedom from her braid. A leather-clad archer from Denerim - his face made prematurely gaunt after a decade of erosion by the taint - let out a soft and admiring chuckle, his eyes trawling the youthful curves of her body.

"I didn't recognise you with your clothes on, young sister."

The archer then received a glare of such dark and ominous dissuasion from Duncan that he shrivelled visibly, head ducking down to take in the earth between his knees.

The dwarf rolled his eyes, passing his commander a bottle of ale.

"Can I get yeh anything, lassie?"

Flora accepted the drink somewhat tentatively – alcohol purified itself the moment it touched her tongue, separating into hops and grassy-tasting water. Still, the dwarf was staring at her expectantly and so she took the bottle of ale, adding her own fingerprints to the greasy marks on the glass neck.

"Is there anything left over from the meat store, Dain?" Duncan enquired, amiably. "Or did the rest of the sausages get 'raided by jackals' again?"

The dwarf chortled amiably, reaching forward to rummage in the embers of the fire. He drew out a pair of metal skewers, each impaled with several sausages.

"Managed to restrain meself, boss. Easy not to go overboard when everythin' tastes like nothin'."

Duncan, whose tastebuds had returned to the full capacity of youth after Flora's attentions, said nothing; accepting a skewer and looking about him for a plate.

Flora, who had been about to eat a sausage straight from the skewer in unladylike fashion, stopped herself just in time.

"So," the Warden-Commander said, taking a bite of sausage and lowering his fork. "Brief me. Any movement on the southern flank?"

Flora had the best of intentions – she started off with her head tilted, listening diligently – but soon the reports grew too complex for her to follow. There was talk of strategic defences, fortified positions, whether or not the Circle mages would be best deployed against Hurlocks or Genlocks. They made reference to incidents in the Deep Roads that predated her entry into the Wardens, including one escapade that prompted all present to break into rueful chuckles.

_All present_  save for Flora, who had no idea what was so funny. Instead of laughing, she finished off her fifth sausage and shot sly little glances at her commander. Duncan was grinning in a roguish way that made him seem oddly young, especially with the careworn parts of his face smoothed over by the firelight. The Warden-Commander was the first man with a pierced ear that Flora had ever met; the small, golden hoop shone against the rich umber hue of his skin.

_It's a Rivaini custom,_ he had told her once when they were lying on a bedroll together.  _I can't remember if it hurt when I had it done._

Then Flora had kissed him and he had drunk liberally from the miraculous replenishment of her mouth. Her small tongue was as sweet as honey, and laced with the arcane. The memory of a woman with a candle-burnt needle had unfurled itself within his skull like a flower awakening from long hibernation.

The reports ended as they had done for the past few months: the Darkspawn were still swarming, but there appeared to be no cohesive force gathering –  _yet._ Several more nests had been uncovered, including one close to their main delivery route which would need to be cleared.

"I thought I could take your mage with me," said the grizzled elf who had discovered the nest in question, canting his head towards Flora. She – utterly oblivious – was happily eating her sixth sausage. "I watched her go into that Chantry storehouse earlier. Those flames were hot enough to melt lead, and she came out without so much as  _sunburn._ That's a shield I'd like to have at my back when purging a Darkspawn nest."

There was no reason for Duncan to protest – no justifiable excuse he could summon – and yet he felt himself bridle, the blood suddenly running hot through his veins. The elf continued to speak, not noticing the deepening scowl embedded on his commander's face.

"Although, with a shield like that, I can see why you recruited her," he said, taking a long gulp of ale. "Who else could get so close to an Archdemon?"

This did succeed in drawing Flora's attention. She knew little of what the Archdemon  _was_ exactly, but – as a mage - she was experienced in the lesser hierarchy of demons. Her spirit of Valour had summoned a variety of them to test her shield against in the Fade; night -time lessons where she had learnt far more than in any Circle classroom.

Duncan saw that she had noticed, and felt anger blossoming in his chest like a crimson  _el rabi_ flower. He shot the elf a look of such menace that the Dalish flinched, pale eyebrows disappearing into his hairline.

"That is  _not_ the purpose for which I brought her into the Wardens," he said, low and quietly furious. "And I'll thank you to hold your tongue before this very  _new_  recruit, Bashelor."

Flora, her attention diverted from the Archdemon to her angry commander, blinked. The Rivaini took a deep breath - forcing his racing heart to slow and his nerves to calm – and continued.

"I'll clear the nest myself," he said, quietly. "I'll choose some junior Wardens to accompany me – they need the practice – and my mage."

_I'll bring Alistair,_ the Warden-Commander thought to himself as the dwarf broke the tension with an inappropriate comment about his leathers.  _The lad is the best of the juniors, and I can trust him to keep the others in line. I can trust him with Flora too; most of these men are rogues and I wouldn't have them within a half-mile of her bedroll._

_They work well together, too. He doesn't judge her for her naivety or lack of education; she giggles at his dubious jokes and treats him with a sweetness that's endearing to behold._

_There's a definite chemistry between them._

_Perhaps I should -_

Duncan glanced sideways at Flora, who was gazing pensively into the flames. He knew that she was most likely daydreaming rather than contemplating anything more intellectual; to his relief, his  _qalbi_ did not have a philosophical mind. Still, the effect was impressive: the haughty face in fire-lit profile, the full mouth part open, the eyelashes long and dark enough to be silhouetted against the amber glow. Her hair, even sweaty and smudged with soot, was decadent in its crimson abundance. She looked like a particularly delectable fruit on the cusp of ripeness; possessing the sort of beauty that would not only turn the heads of men, but startled women and mammals too.

_No,_ Duncan thought to himself, a touch defiantly.  _I won't stand aside._

True to form, Flora had  _not_ been contemplating anything overly complex – the mage was wondering if she could manage a seventh sausage. As though sensing the raw heat of her commander's stare, she glanced sideways. When her soft grey gaze met his unblinking appreciation, Flora shot him a shy half-smile. Taking advantage of the other Wardens' distraction – they were listening to the dwarf drunkenly describe his idea for a  _Darkspawn trap_ – she reached out a surreptitious hand. Her small palm spread over his thigh and lingered there for several moments. Going pink at her own daring, Flora then quickly retracted her hand back to her own lap.

Duncan smiled back, amused by her self-consciousness.

_Half of these men have seen Flora on her knees with my cock between those pretty lips; the other half have seen her feet propped up on my shoulders, toes curling with pleasure. Now she's blushing at putting a hand on my leg._

"Flora?"

She turned her face towards him and the Rivaini moved with the swiftness he had been renowned for as a younger man. His lips claimed hers with languid deliberateness; moving with lazy, lusty purpose. One hand cupped her breast through the thin linen of her tunic, appreciative of the lack of smallclothes.

"Never start wearing a vest,  _qalbi,"_ he murmured throatily as they parted, not caring about the other men in earshot. "I enjoy these little nipples too much."

Floss let out a strangled gasp in response; her own enjoyment evident by the darts tenting the front of the linen. She let her eyes drop unashamedly to his lap; seeking out similar signs of arousal.

Briefly, Duncan considered taking her in the shadows just behind the campfire; bending her over the toppled pillar and pulling down her breeches. Yet – after the scare he had experienced that evening – he wanted to take his time with his  _qalbi;_ to kiss every inch of her body from her hairline to her toes. He wanted to murmur tender words in her ear while pressing her down into the mattress. He did not want a furtive and fumbling rut in the dark, he wanted-

_I want to make love to her._

"Brothers," he said at last, the low and slightly foreign cadence of his voice drawing their attention. "Say I wanted the use of a bed tonight – not a bed _roll,_ not a  _camp_ bed, a proper bed – where might I find a vacant one?"

None of the first few suggestions appealed much – there were beds in the Chantry tent (with disapproving priestesses for neighbours), in the infirmary (Duncan would not take one away from a patient), and finally, in the noble encampment. The elf suggested that Fergus Cousland, the teyrn's son, was away on patrol and  _he_ had a fine bed in his tent. Duncan snorted to himself on hearing this – he was not so perverse as to take up this suggestion.

After dismissing increasingly ludicrous suggestions – the dwarf offered to _build_ a bed from spare lumber, so long as he could spectate on the activities taking place in it – the Rivaini was struck by an idea. It was one of such simultaneous genius and utter banality that Duncan smiled to himself, amused by the fact that their circumstances were so abnormal that  _normal_ solutions were often the last ideas to come up.

_There's an inn about an hour's ride west, just where the farms meet the foothills. It's frequented mostly by delivery-wagons and messengers who use the trade road._

_They'll have rooms, and beds, and privacy. No interruptions._

The Warden-Commander stood abruptly, and with an ease of movement that he had not possessed for many years. Flora looked up to see a gloved hand extended in her direction; she took it without hesitation.

Twenty minutes later, they were on horseback, taking the western road out of Ostagar as a curious moon hung low overhead. It was a calm, cloudless evening; every star was visible in the firmament overhead and the Southron Hills seemed oddly beautiful – considering what lurked on their border. The slopes, dark and bristled with firs like rows of painter's brushes, were still and soundless, save for the low whisper of the river. The valley floor below was like a swathe of spilled ink, too far for the moonlight to penetrate.

Flora had not asked Duncan where they were headed. She sat before him on the saddle, quiet and content, inspecting the tips of her fingers. The only evidence of the evening's continuous channeling of magic was a slight pinkness to the skin; it did not hurt, and was already fading.

_She doesn't question where we're going because she's used to obeying authority,_ the Warden-Commander realised, suddenly.

_I requested her presence as her lover, not her superior. Shit. I'd better just make sure-_

" _Qalbi?"_

His voice broke the silence; a startled bird broke free from the nearby undergrowth and flapped skywards. Flora tilted her head as best she was able, unable to look him in the eye from her position perched before him.

"Mm?"

Duncan paused for a moment, unsure how to phrase his question. Flora waited patiently, her pale eyes cast in silver by the watery brush of moonlight.

"You're… happy to accompany me," he sought to confirm, a rare hesitation in his words. "You understand that this wasn't an  _instruction."_

Despite the ambiguous wording, Flora understood immediately what he was asking. She replied with her lips, swivelling at a dangerous angle in the saddle and pressing her mouth to his, breathless and certain.

"Don't worry," the Rivaini's lover whispered once they had parted, his hands on her waist to stop her from slipping. "I would have said no if I didn't want to. I said no to King Cailan, remember?"

Duncan let out a soft sigh of relief; she  _had_ rejected Cailan's repeated advances. He ducked his head for another kiss, letting the reins drop from his hand as he embraced the slender shoulders of his lover.

_I could take her here on the side of the road,_ he thought feverishly to himself, cock stirring in his breeches as she sighed happily against his mouth.  _I could be inside her at this very moment. There's a patch of grass over there-_

He forced himself to break the kiss, aware that the longer it went on, the less likely he would be to resist. Flora's naturally sulky mouth turned downwards even further at the corners; the Warden-Commander smiled at her pout.

"I've plans for us tonight,  _amira,"_ Duncan murmured, letting her settle securely back against his chest before nudging the horse onwards. "The inn isn't far. You can see the lantern light just beyond the next hill."

"Bed plans," Flora said, pressing her fingers against her flushed cheeks to feel the excited heat rising from her skin.

"Aye, love.  _Bed plans."_

"I've never been in a  _proper_  bed before," Flora said, thinking back on her previous sleeping arrangements:  _bedroll, Duncan's campbed_ ,  _Circle bunk, pallet on the floor._ "They're just like a bunk, but wider?"

"Four times as wide, and much sturdier," the Warden-Commander replied, stifling a smile.

_And I plan to test the sturdiness of it._

"What do you do in them? I mean," amended Flora, blushing as he shot her a knowing look. "Apart from… apart from  _that._ Why do you need so much space? Is it for four-times-as-wide  _people?"_

She felt a rumble against her shoulder-blades as he chuckled; lips brushing affectionately over the top of her head.

"No. It's so that you don't have to sleep like sardines packed tight into a crate, as we do when sharing my campbed."

Flora beamed, appreciating the marine reference.

"Ooh, but I quite  _like_  being squashed up with you," she confessed after a moment, thoughtfully. "I might get lonely if I have  _too_  much room."

He laughed properly then, shattering the silence of the forest around them.

"You can still sleep squashed up with me if you desire it,  _qalbi."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WTF how did I end up with no smut in my fiftieth chapter?? Smut next time I promise :P 
> 
> And also how many of you thought that the title implied a giant senior warden orgy with Flo getting spitroasted like a suckling pig?? Hahaha no no she does have some standards XD she's more than happy with her three current lovers lol


	51. The Rose and Cauldron

As Duncan had promised, the inn lay just over the brow of the next. Tucked into a small hollow that offered some protection from the winds that sang constantly around the Southron slopes, the  _Rose and Cauldron_ was a welcome sight to travellers, traders and locals alike. In better times, all eleven rooms that it offered on its second storey were occupied; with rumours of Darksparn nearby, most of the tavern's accommodation now stood empty. Still, the range of local ales and the promise of good company continued to draw patrons from much of the south-western Hinterlands.

The moon gazed down curiously from above, illuminating the squat little tavern as it nestled into the side of the hill. The building was constructed from Southron granite and was not especially attractive; though the owners had painted the shutters bright green and added flower-pots to the windows in an effort to make it more appealing.

A gangly youth, yawning and scratching at his nose, came wandering from the stables to greet the new arrivals. Duncan patted the horse's flank as it slowed; the beast was twitching its tail at the raucous laughter and off-singing drifting from the windows.

"Easy,  _hisān,"_ he murmured, feeling Flora shirt on the saddle before him. "Time for you to rest. Evening, lad."

"Evening, ser," squeaked the youth after a moment, having been momentarily transfixed by the Rivaini's appearance. Although Duncan had forsaken any identifying armour – he had no wish to be recognised as the Commander of the Grey tonight – it was unusual to see men of foreign appearance this far south.

Duncan dismounted with the swiftness of one who had spent decades in the saddle, then reached up a hand. His female travel-mate made an inelegant descent in his wake; slithering to the grass with a grunt. The youth's mouth had already fallen in open-mouthed curiosity at the sight of the small gold ring in the Rivaini's ear. When the girl turned her finely hewn face into the lantern-light, the jaw dropped still further and he stood as though paralysed.

The Warden-Commander snorted to himself; he had forgotten the effect that his fair-faced  _qalbi_ had on those not used to her. Hiding a smile, he took the dangling reins and put them into the youth's frozen hand, along with a silver coin.

"The mare needs to be fed and watered," he instructed, watching the youth shake himself from his reverie. "And I want her ready to leave at dawn. Show me where you intend to keep her."

"Yes – yes, ser!"

While this exchange had been taking place, Flora had her head tilted in an effort to read the letters daubed on the sign above the tavern entrance. Realistically, she had as much chance of reading the painted italics as she did translating a tablet of Ancient Tevene. The only letter of the Fereldan alphabet she could consistently identify was  _F,_ and she could not see any  _F_ s in the tavern's name.

"Duncan," she whispered as he came to join her from the stable. "What's this place called?"

"The  _Rose and Cauldron,"_ he replied, irrationally pleased that she had not called him  _Warden-Commander._ "Come,  _amira."_

He led the way inside the tavern, grimacing at the sudden bright glare of firelight. Despite the lateness of the hour there were still a fair few dedicated drinkers left sitting at the tables: a set of dwarves engaged in some sort of tankard-downing contest, a shifty-eyed apostate trying to pass his stave off as a walking stick, a pair of old women gossiped away over a shared bowl of stew. In the corner, a singer plucked away at a tuneless lute.

Fortunately, none of the occupants seemed overly interested in Duncan's arrival. They spared him a cursory suspicious glance, peered at Flora with more appreciation, then returned their focus to their activities.

_Still,_ the senior warden mused as he led Flora towards the bar.  _I want to avoid unnecessary attention._

He greeted the tavern-keeper, a man of defeated appearance with a ferocious wife lurking menacingly in the background.

"And evenin' back to you, ser," mumbled the tavern-keeper, stifling a yawn. "Is it a drink you're after, or…?"

"We require a good-quality room for the night," Duncan said gravely, his dark eyes focusing on the harried-looking man.

"With a bed wide enough for four people," added the earnest Flora, in a misguided attempt to be helpful.

The tavern-keeper blinked. Duncan almost burst out laughing; he had to restrain the urge to kiss her there and then. Still, he managed to keep his composure as the tavern-keeper drew out a ledger.

"I've a – uh – good quality room to spare, ser. May I take your names, and payment in advance? Only because we've had soldiers passin' through, and sometimes they 'forget' to pay their bill in the mornin'," the man hastened to explain, watching greedily as Duncan retrieved a weighty coinpurse.

"I am Darius," the Warden-Commander said, reverting to an alias he had used to get out of trouble on the streets of Dairsmuid as a youth. "And this is my wife- "

"Frotburga," intoned Flora defiantly, after a moment of panic. "My name is… Frotburga."

For a second time in as many minutes, Duncan had to stop himself from laughing. He bit back a snort, feeling the little-used muscle of his humour revive itself after what seemed like years of neglect.

_I've lived months cloaked in darkness, submerged in the stinking and putrid depths of the Deep Roads, breathing in the taint until it coated both my lungs and my mind. I've spent three decades of my life keeping the Darkspawn away from those who live on the surface. I've seen sights too terrible to describe - watched men become monsters before my eyes - and gained no reward or recognition._

_This girl makes me laugh without trying; in the best of ways. She's irreverent, and earnest, and sweet as Afsaana honey._

"Darius and, ah – Frotburga," the tavern-keeper repeated, scribing their names in the ledger before retrieving a set of keys from a hidden hook. "I'll show you to your chamber."

He led them up a back staircase, the noise of the tavern growing distant with each creaking step; then along a narrow passage with doors branching off to either side.

"Keep your window closed or else the midge-flies'll come in. There's ale and cups on the dresser, three silver charge. If you require water for washing…"

The tavern-keeper droned on as he led the way to the end of the passageway, lantern held high to ward off the gloom. Neither the Warden-Commander nor his recruit were paying attention; for Duncan's hand was busy caressing Flora's rear through the grey wool of her tunic. He cupped her pert buttock with a covetous palm, enjoying the flex of the taut muscle as she walked. As they came to a halt at the end of the passageway, he coughed to disguise the sound of his spread fingers delivering a gentle spank to his  _qalbi's_ neat little bottom.

"Here's your room and key," the tavern-keeper said as he turned to face them, wondering why  _'Frotburga'_ was suddenly so pink-cheeked and breathless. "May the Maker grant you both pleasant dreams. Oh, and out of the room by the ninth bell tomorrow, please."

The chamber itself was mid-sized and typically Fereldan; exposed wooden beams running the length of the ceiling, matching floorboards and plastered walls. A dresser with one leg replaced by a book stood in one corner; a small hearth was chewing through the last of its logs. A long mirror ran alongside one wall, only slightly warped in one corner and most likely worth the contents of the room combined.

Yet neither Duncan nor Flora were taking notice of the chamber's stark décor. Their attention was fixed on the four-poster bed in the centre of the room, its faded green hangings pulled back to display folded blankets and neatly stacked cushions. It was a bed that indeed seemed as though it would be  _wide enough for four_.

"It's so  _big,"_ breathed his mage, wandering reverently towards it as one might approach the altar in a Chantry. "It looks like something that a… a king would sit on. If he wanted to look impressive."

Flora wrapped her fingers around one of the bedposts, then stretched her other arm out as far as she was able in an attempt to touch the other. Naturally, since the bed  _was_ rather wide and she was certainly not tall, she was not able to manage this.

_Don't pounce,_ Duncan thought measuredly to himself, turning to face the door as he unbuttoned his travel-cloak.  _You could have had her on the side of the road if you wanted simply to rut her. You could have taken her in the shadows of the campfire back at Ostagar._

_You brought her here for a reason._

He reached down to turn the key in the lock. It made a satisfying  _click_ as it turned; and the Rivaini felt oddly reassured by the solid sound. He crossed to the dresser and retrieved the ale, pushing free the cork with a strong thumb.

_No interruptions. She's mine until dawn._

"Would you like something to drink, _Frotburga?"_ he began, turning around with tankard in hand.

Flora was sprawled like a starfish across the bed, having clearly flung herself face-first onto the blankets. As he watched, her shoulders rose and fell evenly; a muffled snore emerged from the mattress.

If Duncan had needed any more confirmation that his feelings for the young mage ran deeper than mere lust; his reaction at that moment would have been sufficient proof. He found himself smiling, rueful and yet wholly understanding; affection running warm and liquid through the courses of his body.

_My sweet comb of honey,_ he thought to himself, replacing the ale on the dresser and approaching the bed.  _No wonder you're exhausted. Look at the evening you've had._

Duncan sat on the bed beside her, lifting one foot and then the other to remove her boots. The mattress was yielding enough to sag beneath his weight; Flora curled up in her sleep, then rolled over, one hand flung out with reckless abandon. She was a deep sleeper, as mages tended to be, anchored firmly within the Fade by her spirits. Her hair had mostly freed itself from the constraint of the leather tie, spread beneath her like a fall of rich autumnal leaves.

Not thinking too closely about his own motivation, the Rivaini reached out for the laces of her tunic. The shapeless grey wool had done an excellent job of hiding the pert, petite curves of the body below.

_She never dresses to show herself off,_ Duncan thought, easing the wool over her shoulders.  _It's most likely a good thing; we'd never get anything done if those ripe little tits were on constant display, or if her breeches clung to that high bottom._

Taking a deep breath to adequately prepare himself, Duncan opened the front of Flora's tunic. A strangled groan escaped his throat as he feasted his eyes on the unblemished, creamy mounds below, each capped with an obscenely pink tip. Each was a full mouthful, made to be suckled; the nipples begged for the attention of an admiring tongue.

"I've never seen such a perfect pair of breasts," he told the sleeping girl, the cadence of his voice made richer and more reverberant with desire.

_I remember the first time I touched them, during those illicit kisses we shared on the riverbank. Even through the linen of your nightshirt I could feel how exquisitely ripe and firm they were; each one a mango plucked fresh from the branch. The very next morning, you let me fondle them without any barrier between my fingers and your flesh._

_You were so eager to yield your virginity that you would have let me take you there on the side of the riverbank, minutes after your first taste of an adult kiss._

Without realising it, the Rivaini's hand had gone to his erection; palm rubbing along the clothed length of his shaft. He loosened the top few buttons, letting several inches of his cock spring up to rest against his stomach. Duncan curved finger and thumb around the base of the swollen, plum-coloured head; squeezing the flesh within the callused ring of skin. He began to stroke the top half of his cock in carefully controlled motions, teasing the head with exquisite delicacy until clear liquid began to seep free.

The greying Rivaini allowed himself several minutes of self-pleasure, feasting on the sight of his sleeping lover's bared breasts.

_Enough._

Duncan released his grip with a low growl; striding over to the dresser and pouring an ale just to find some way to occupy his hands. He downed the ale in three long gulps before replacing the tankard measuredly on the ring-stained surface.

_Calm down. The night is young._

Once his heart had slowed somewhat, the Warden-Commander took a deep breath and turned back to face the bed. The moment that he set eyes on the tousle-haired, half-naked girl sprawled on the blankets like a washed-up mermaid, both his pulse and his cock sprang joyously back to life.

_So much for keeping calm. Fuck me, she's gorgeous._

Duncan approached the bed once again, leaning forward to gently manoeuvre the shapeless grey wool from the delectable flesh beneath. Still submerged soundly within the Fade, Flora sighed but made no sign of stirring; her fingers curling gently against the blanket. He reached for the hem of her linen smalls, gripping them by the waistband and attempting to inch them down her thighs. The garment refused to cooperate, pressed into the mattress by her buttocks.

"Help me,  _qalbi,"_ he murmured, and somehow in the depths of her sleep she heard and obeyed him; shifting her hips so that the Rivaini could ease down the last garment that preserved her modesty.

Finally, Duncan's pretty recruit lay naked on the blankets before him, curls of decadently rich crimson decorating her breasts. He took a lingering moment to admire the shaven plumpness of her mound; the creamy skin in delicious contrast to the fleshy pinkness of her folds.

_I should have brought my woven ropes,_ he thought, reaching down to part her thighs.  _My qalbi would look so wanton with her ankles tied to the bedposts._

_I'd wager coin that she would enjoy it too, given how readily she kneels before me._

The Warden-Commander returned his attention to his cock, which was still straining impatient against his belly. Loosening his breeches further, he spat into his palm and took himself in hand. His eyes wandered freely over Flora's nakedness, relishing the ripe sexuality that accompanied youth and beauty.

For a moment, he considered indulging in one of his favourite perversions: coaxing as much slickness from his  _qalbi's_ neat folds as was possible, toying her nipples and teasing her little bud of pleasure with a careful forefinger. He would then wake her by easing his cock within her folds; watching her mouth part in drowsy delight.

_She doesn't even know whose cock she's taking for those first few moments,_ Duncan thought to himself, fondly.  _But the sweet girl still lifts her hips to meet their thrusts, encouraging them with her whimpers._

Soon, his fist was stroking furiously along the length of his sweaty shaft; the wet sound of callused palm moving against wet flash echoing to the eaves of the chamber. Each inhalation was a sucked in hiss; each exhalation a guttural half-moan. His olive buttocks were clenched; quivering and taut with pleasure.

Flora - who had just woken from her catnap - watched Duncan from beneath her eyelashes; her heart racing so hard that she was sure he could hear it. She never grew tired of seeing her commander utterly lost in pleasure; his expression a world away from the pressures of the Blight. His breeches were thrust down halfway to his knees; perspiration ran down the lean abdomen and dampened the fading curls nestling between the olive thighs. He was using two hands to expertly pleasure himself, teeth gritted and eyes squeezed tightly shut; his head tilted back so that the ponytail brushed his sweaty shoulders.

As the Rivaini dropped a palm to caress the root of his shaft, he felt the unmistakable lap of a tongue against his heavy sac. Duncan looked down to see his  _qalbi_  kneeling at his feet, naked and hopeful; her face tilted expectantly up to his. Her lips were already wetted and parted in preparation, her fingers gently guiding his cock towards her eager mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol he takes her all the way to this inn for the purpose of utilising a 'proper' bed.... and she's sprawled asleep snoring XD 
> 
> Oh well at least she wakes up eventually haha and Duncan has got some good eye candy in the meantime lol
> 
> Also Frotburga is an actual Medieval English/Germanic-origin name lol


	52. In The Tavern Bedchamber

" _Amira,"_ Duncan had just enough time to half-say, before the full, plush lips enveloped the swollen bulb of his cockhead. Flora lifted her grey eyes to his face, but only  _briefly_. She wanted to savour the sight of her commander's richly tanned shaft sliding inch by inch into her eager mouth as she knelt before him. It stretched the corners of her lips so nicely; as though it had been specially crafted to fill her throat.

Unfortunately, this meant that she had to go cross-eyed; a sight which prompted a strangled half-gasp of laughter to escape Duncan's throat. He reacted down a callused palm to caress the top of her tousled head, smiling at the pout that followed.

"You want to see what you look like with my cock in your mouth, baby?" he asked, lust making him crude as Loghain. "Move that pretty ass over here."

When she nodded, unashamedly curious, the Rivaini angled himself towards the expensive Orlesian mirror in the corner of the room. Flora shuffled obediently across the floorboards, taking up a position once again on her knees before him.

Now the scene in the silvered glass stole her attention and the young mage stared at their reflection in utter fascination. Her mirror-self knelt naked on the rug, a deep crimson mass of curls tumbling wantonly down her back. Every part of her seemed tilted upwards in an offering to the man before her: from the pert breasts, to high buttocks, to the eager little face. The firelight brought warmth to the creamy coolness of her skin, playing across her belly and highlighting the delicate flush on her throat. Her hand was already reaching for the jutting, bronzed tower of the Rivaini's cock; standing out long and proud from his hastily opened breeches. The old wolf of a man was still mostly clad and she was naked before him, the firelight caressing her buttocks as she knelt. Yet he was the one waiting with baited breath; the seasoned commander now thoroughly at the mercy of his nineteen year old lover.

Fascinated, Flora watched her own full lips wrap around the swollen cockhead, immediately tasting his arousal on the tip of her tongue. She was so intrigued by the sight that she drew back, letting his cock slip free from her mouth before slowly sucking it back in. Releasing it from her lips once more, she pressed a series of loving kisses along the nine tawny inches; watching her reflection administer the same tender treatment.

"Don't tease me,young one _,"_ Duncan murmured, and there was a distinctly raw edge to the plea. "I've been thinking about your mouth all day."

 _And you,_ the Rivaini thought, grimly.  _Maker help me._

Flora smiled up at him – pleased that she had been in his thoughts – then obediently drew his cock within her lips. The fingers of one hand curled around the pulsing root; while her other palm came up to cup the warm, swollen weight of his sac. Her head began to move back and forth in an age-old rhythm; now focused fully on her lover's pleasure.

Duncan closed his eyes, listening to the wet, breathy sounds drifting up from below. His  _qalbi_ suckled his cock with an amateur's eagerness; what she lacked in experience, she made up for in enthusiasm. Her tongue lapped him hungrily from root to tip; she pounced on each glistening bead of his arousal and drank it down. The faint tingle of creation energy on her lips made the blood pump harder along his length, his sac swelling with hot and impatient seed.

The Warden-Commander felt his knees weaken; usually when receiving pleasure from his  _qalbi's_ miraculous mouth, he had some furniture nearby to prop himself up. Duncan gritted his teeth, tensing the strong muscle of his thighs and planting his feet more firmly on the floorboards.

Unfortunately, Flora then decided to draw his cock into her throat. She inhaled his length, taking inch by inch between those plush and pillowy lips with an expression of utter concentration. When she had managed to sheath a good three-quarters of his length, she shot Duncan a look of such pride and delight that he almost spilled his seed within her throat.

His mage resumed the gentle rocking of her head, her fingers stroking and petting wherever she thought might give pleasure to her lover. The sounds escaping the Warden-Commander's throat were now near incoherent; guttural moans interspersed with fragments of his native tongue.

" _Qalbi,"_ he managed to croak eventually, his fingers groping blindly at her head. Flora gazed up at him, pink-cheeked and dreamy-eyed, her fingers exploring the swollen contours of his sac. "Play with your pearl while you suck me. I intend to spill my seed deep in that sweet little cunt."

Instead Flora sat back on her heels, his cock slipping free of her mouth. Instead of responding she parted her legs; an audibly wet sound emerged as her slick thighs parted. Duncan's dark gaze went straight to the set of glistening folds between her legs, puffy and pink with arousal.

This proved too much for the old Rivaini, who realised that his climax was now inevitable. A growl tore from Duncan's throat as he reached down; gripping his startled recruit by the shoulders, thrusting her back onto the mattress. He caught Flora's legs as she squeaked, drew them around his waist, then lined his cockhead up against her slick little slit. Using the weight of his own sweating body, he sunk into her to the very root of his shaft. She let out a half-gasp at such sudden fullness, turning her head blindly from side to side against the blankets.

Then he was fucking her hard into the mattress, hips thrusting in the relentless pursuit of his own end. The Rivaini was blind to everything except the need for release; the Archdemon could have pried away the tavern roof with its claws and Duncan's buttocks would have continued to piston urgently between his pretty mage's thighs.

It took less than thirty seconds for his cock to convulse within such a tight and welcoming sheath. A strangled groan slipped from the senior warden's throat; followed by fragments of his boyhood tongue that he had not spoken for thirty years. He spent himself inside her in at a half-dozen hot and impatient spurts, gripping her calves with clenched fingers.

There followed a few moments of silence, save for the older man's hoarse inhalations as he tried to reclaim some air. The room suddenly seemed too warm and he could feel himself perspiring beneath his leathers. Made weak by the sheer intensity of the climax, Duncan felt himself slumping forwards; head hanging low as he drew in an unsteady breath.

" _Maker,"_ he said, and it emerged more gasp than spoken word. "What you – what you  _do_ to me- "

Then he felt arms reaching up to encircle his neck, drawing his face down to her chest. Despite their disparity in size, the Rivaini let Flora pull him downwards closing his eyes as he felt the fleshy firmness of her breast against his cheek. Duncan listened to the soft throb of her heart, feeling her fingers wandering through the fading strands of hair that had escaped his ponytail.

He let himself rest on top of her for several minutes, without speaking and with eyes tightly shut. The slender fingers continued to meander around his head without purpose or direction; combing gently through the hair before tracing the shape of the ear. Her little finger nudged at the earring – Flora was clearly still fascinated with it, despite her familiarity. Her breath was warm across his shoulder, her small breast equally so against his cheek. For the first time in decades, Duncan felt more  _man_ than  _Warden;_ the pressure of the Blight miraculously – albeit temporarily - alleviated.

Eventually, the Rivaini grew aware of the fact that at least part of his weight was bearing down on her. He let himself roll sideways onto his back, bringing Flora with him so that now their positions were reversed. When Duncan opened his eyes she was smiling down at him, her chin propped in her hands, while strands of lustrous red fell loose about her shoulders.

"What did you say?" she whispered, reaching down to tuck a loose tuft of dark hair behind his ear. "When you-  _you know._  It didn't sound Fereldan."

Duncan had said  _I love you_ in his native tongue; the admission slipping out unexpected with the violent expulsion of his seed.

_But I can't say it to her I have nothing to offer her. I don't even expect to live beyond the Blight – and if, by some miracle I did, what then? A few years of madness, and then death._

_If I were twenty years younger – even a decade – but, no. It can't be._

"I said – for the love of the Maker, in the language of my boyhood," he lied, feeling something shrivel within him as he did so. "In Rivaini. I hope I didn't crush you just then."

Flora shook her head placidly, resting her chin on his shoulder.

"You didn't crush me," she mumbled, shifting herself to lie more comfortably on top of him. "Mm."

Duncan let out a long exhalation, spreading a hand over the small of her back. He let his palm slide in a smooth caress up to the nape of her neck, then back down over the rounded curve of her rump. Flora turned her face to the side, fingers curling idly in the blanket as she took in the  _width_  of the bed.

"I don't think you could fit four people in here," she whispered, letting her arm drape loose across the mattress. "Maybe  _three._ You ought to get a discount."

The Rivaini smiled, closing his eyes once again as his palm meandered over the gentle contours of her body; admiring the ripeness of the rear and the delicately hewn muscle of the back.

_I last slept with a Circle mage decades ago; another redhead, as it happens. Her body was soft and lush, the product of many years spent in refined confinement. My little qalbi is slender but firm; there's not an inch of fat on her._

_Of course, she admitted it herself. She spent four years doing chores rather than seated behind a desk._

Duncan leaned up to claim a kiss; she readily yielded. Their mouths worked together for several minutes, soft and lingering; he bit lovingly at her lower lip and she suckled gently on his tongue.

When they parted, it was only so they could stare at each other with utter absorption; his dark eyes boring into her rain-grey gaze. Unable to help himself, he let out a soft groan and took her mouth for his own once again. They resumed their kisses, lips working in tender harmony as they embraced.

 _Despite what you told the innkeeper,_ a small voice in the back of Duncan's skull warned.  _She's not your wife. Stop acting like you're newlyweds._

Yet it was hard to listen to reason when his attention was so fully fixated on his eager young lover; who was draped over him, entirely nude. He could feel the press of Flora's high breasts against his chest, his thigh had slid instinctively upwards to nestle between her legs.

_My cock is hard again. Maker, I've the vigour of a seventeen year old with this girl._

_Calm yourself, aldhiyb alqadim._

Duncan let his hand pass over her head, flattening the rampart crimson tangles.

"What'll you have to drink,  _qalbi?"_ he murmured, twisting a stray strand around his finger. "I'll fetch us something from downstairs. Mead? Wine?"

Flora pulled an instinctive face; alcohol immediately broke itself down into its component parts when it made contact with her purifying tongue.

"Water, please," she requested, rolling off him and onto the mattress with a grunt. "They've a well, I saw it when we arrived. Or milk."

Duncan rose to his feet, checking his reflection in the mirror to ensure that he did not look  _too_ bed-rumpled. He noted, with some wryness, that he had not even taken the time to divest himself of his travel cloak before lunging between his  _qalbi's_ parted thighs.

Tucking a fading strand of hair behind his ear, he turned back to the bed. Flora was sprawled with her limbs stretched out like a starfish, fascinated by the width of this  _proper bed._

" _Easal_ , don't be alarmed; I'm going to lock the door while I'm gone," he told her, revelling in her unashamed nakedness. "I won't risk any drunken idiots mistaking our room for theirs and walking in on you."

Flora smiled vaguely at him over her shoulder, not particularly worried. Any 'unwelcome visitors' would find themselves rapidly ejected back into the hallway, courtesy of a rapidly expanding shield. Duncan shot her a half-amused, half-chiding glance in response, fastening the buckle of his belt.

"I'm well aware that you can protect yourself," he said, retrieving the key from the dresser. "But allow an old man his irrational concerns, eh?"

Flora nodded, reaching behind her head to feel the mound of cushions that had been stacked there. She began to count them, fascinated at the concept of a pillow that was not a rolled-up tunic. After a few moments, his recruit paused her counting and shot him a mournful look from beneath her eyelashes.

"Don't be too long, please. I'll miss you."

Duncan cursed under his breath; it was hard enough to leave a beautiful nineteen year old in bed without comments of  _that_ nature.

"I'll be back by the time that you count to three hundred,  _qalbi."_

Flora, who could not reliably count beyond thirty, boggled at the door as it closed swiftly her in her commander's wake. Left on her own, she made a valiant attempt to count up to three hundred, but faltered once she had reached the twenties. Eventually, she abandoned the attempt without too much concern – Flora could not imagine any important circumstance in her life where she would need to count beyond a dozen.

Clambering out of bed, she improvised a makeshift garment out of a blanket, knotting the frayed ends over her breasts. Having never stayed in an inn before, the young mage began to explore the bedchamber. She spared only a passing glance to her reflection in the mirror; inspecting the coat stand beside the door and the small vase of dried flowers on the mantelpiece. Her fingers brushed down the threadbare velvet bed-hangings, which – compared to her usual coarse linens and woollens - felt  _luxurious_.

Eventually her wandering gaze came to rest on the portrait above the dresser. The paint was cheap and faded, but the image within the frame was still visible – a handsome, grave-faced man, perhaps in his fifties, with grey-streaked blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard. There was something strangely familiar about the painted figure's strong nose and chiselled jaw. Flora stared up at it; a flicker of memory flaring in the back of her mind.

_I've never seen this man before. Why do I feel like I know him?_

_He looks a bit like Cailan, come to think of it._

_He looks a bit like –_

The key twisted in the lock with a hollow clunk; the door swung open to reveal the Warden-Commander with a tray precariously balanced in one hand, a bottle in the other. Duncan had purchased more than he was accustomed to needing – the hearty appetite of his youth had returned along with his rejuvenated tastebuds.

Flora, clutching the blanket in place, came trotting to the doorway to assist. She took the bottle, and a half-loaf that was about to plummet off the tray; looking around for somewhere to put them. Since there was no table, she headed to the bed and deposited the items on the blanket.

 _Perhaps I ought to have dined with her downstairs first,_  Duncan rebuked himself, silently.  _Rather than bedding her within minutes of our arrival._

_What do men do in courtship again?_

"I'm sorry for my inexperience in… these matters,  _qalbi "_ he said softly, after a moment. "It's been many years since I've –  _wined and dined_ a lady."

_Or had any connection more meaningful than a quick rut on a mouldy bedroll._

While Duncan had been chastising himself over such romantic inadequacy, Flora was tackling the situation with northern practicality. She had taken the candlestick, vase and little-used copy of the Chant from the bedside cabinet and relocated them to the dresser. She then dragged the cabinet across the floorboards until it stood parallel to the bed. With a small grunt of satisfaction, she placed the bottle and loaf of bread on this makeshift 'table'.

"I don't have any experience in themeither," Flora replied gravely, not entirely sure what  _'these matters'_ were. "Look: we have a table now."

She was slightly pink in the cheeks from shoving the solid Fereldan oak, the blanket had slipped down to her waist. After tugging it back up over her breasts, Flora perched on the edge of the mattress. She tilted her head towards him and half-smiled; habitually shy, yet pleased with herself at coming up with a solution.

Duncan hesitated for the briefest of moments, struck by a feeling so foreign that he was genuinely taken aback. His mouth was dry but the tips of his fingers were sweaty; he could feel the elevated throb of his heart as a physical beat in his throat.

 _I'm nervous,_ the Warden-Commander realised, astounded.  _I, Duncan – veteran of three dozen Deep Roads expeditions, who once leapt recklessly onto the back of a dragon to bring it to ground. I've slain possessed maleficar and challenged demons in their own domain._

_Apparently, half-naked nineteen year olds are my weakness._

_Or, she is._

Keeping a tight grip on the tray, he shrugged off his cloak and hung it on the hook beside the door, taking the opportunity to draw in a steadying gulp of air. When Duncan looked back towards the bed, Flora was looking at him, anxiety dawning on her solemn and finely-hewn face. He did not know whether she could sense his apprehension, or if she was merely confused by his delay; but the sight of her full mouth turning downwards was enough to send a Crow-dagger of guilt into his gut.

The Rivaini crossed the chamber in several swift strides, letting the tray drop to the cabinet and lowering himself to the mattress beside Flora. He put an arm around her neck and drew her against his shoulder; she instinctively put both arms around his waist.

"I'm afraid they had no seafood,  _qalbi,"_ he said, knowing that her favourite was smoked mackerel. "I scavenged what I could. Do you like stew? I'm not sure what sort of meat it contains – they told me rabbit, though I think it might possibly be  _rat._ Which would remind me of my days in Val Royeaux."

Her chin resting on his shoulder, Flora gave a little shrug; she was not fussy.

"I like all food," she replied, honestly. "Thank you."

She tilted her chin upwards and kissed Duncan's bearded cheek; he closed his eyes briefly to savour the press of her lips.

The stew was ladled into two smaller bowls – incidentally, it  _was_ rabbit – and accompanied with torn hunks of fresh-baked bread. Flora sat cross-legged on the mattress, her foot resting companionably against her commander's thigh; Duncan ate his share on the edge of the bed, wondering at how he could discern each individual herb used to disguise the toughness of the meat.

_How long has it been since I was able to taste the difference between parsley and thyme?_

Once she had finished her stew – she took her dinner very seriously – Flora took several gulps of water. She then turned to Duncan, nudging her toes gently into his thigh.

"You've lived in Val – Val Royeaux?"

She mangled the pronunciation but Duncan could understand the question well enough. He inclined his head, mopping up the last of the stew with a hunk of bread.

"Aye, for several years. Not the years I'm proudest of."

He snorted, amused by his own colourful past. Flora's kisses had uncovered memories which had lain dormant for years; her peculiar magic cleansing them of tainted shadow and presenting them to their owner polished and clear.

"Where  _else_  have you lived?"

The closest that Flora had been to another country was the dark line of the Marches; which could occasionally be glimpsed on the horizon of the Waking Sea on a rare cloudless day. She had never even ventured  _close_ to a border, had never lived anywhere – to her knowledge – beyond Herring and the Circle. The longest journey that she had taken in her life had been the ride down to Ostagar, through the rolling hills of the Hinterlands.

Taking his ale bottle in hand, Duncan outlined his adolescence; in Rivain, Highever, Nevarra and Orlais. He had not intended to spend long on each, but soon found himself inadvertently exploring the avenues of long forgotten memory; recanting particular conversations, people, taverns and voyages that he had not been able to remember in years. He told her how he came to join the Wardens, the circumstances of his first expedition into the Deep Roads, how he first came to meet Cailan's father, Maric.

 _That's his portrait,_ he had pointed out, lifting a finger to the handsome blond man above the hearth.

 _I thought he looked familiar,_ she had replied, brow furrowing.

They had shifted positions on the bed during his storytelling, the cabinet shoved back into position and the dinner detritus put to one side. Duncan leaned back against the cushions, his arm around Flora's narrow shoulders as she lay curled beside him. She had listened with utter absorption, her chin resting on his chest; astonished at the sheer scope and diversity of his escapades.

"You had done a lot more than me by the time that you were my age," Flora said wonderingly, watching Duncan's throat move as he downed the last of his ale. "Seen a lot of things. You must have interesting dreams."

He was about to reply wryly that the nights of a senior warden were seldom spent in pleasant reminiscence, then stopped in abrupt realisation.

_When was the last time my nights were disturbed by their insidious whispering? I can't even recall._

Duncan smiled at her instead of responding, rubbing his thumb in a lingering circle around her bare shoulder.

"My nights are far more interesting now," he replied, the slow deliberateness of his tone making his meaning clear.

Flora went pink at the intimacy of his tone, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to her throat, tonguing a deliberate line from her ear to the nape of her neck. She yielded to his advantages like a flower basking in the sun; unable to hide her delight.

"My gorgeous girl," he murmured, reaching for the the knot that kept the blanket tied on her breasts. "Let me unwrap you. Lie back,  _qalbi."_

Flora obediently settled back on the blankets, her rain-grey eyes following his fingers as they worked free the knot. The Warden-Commander drew apart the halves of the blanket and gazed down at her nakedness; the breath catching in his throat.

"Your body is like a doll,  _amira,"_ he said thickly, each word coated with desire. "I've never seen such pretty breasts.  _Mm."_

Duncan leaned forwards to kiss her mouth and she curled a slender arm around his neck as their tongues worked languidly together. Flora nibbled at his lip as they parted; he growled deep in his throat and she giggled.

When they parted, the outline of his cock stood out against his trousers, a broad bulge outlined by the leather. Flora reached out to cup him with desirous fingers, unable to fit his length within her palm. Duncan moistened dry lips as he watched her try and encompass his shaft with her small hand; excitement flaring on her cheeks as she felt the trunk-like thickness.

"I think it's time for me to put you over my knee," Duncan said, smiling at her ensuing squeak of delight. "My wanton little beauty."

He shifted himself to the edge of the bed, spreading his broad thighs and fixing her with an expectant stare.

Flora, once she was standing before him, lowered her head repentantly. She appeared almost a perfect picture of contrition; her true emotion given away only by the stiffness of her nipples and the excited flush across her throat.

"So, my new recruit," the Warden-Commander murmured, raising dark Rivaini eyes to her blushing face. "Have you done anything today that I ought to know about?"

Flora nodded, biting her lip and peering at him through dishevelled strands of hair. Duncan drew her down onto his thigh, pressing his knee up against her tender folds as she let out a whimper. He brushed aside her hair and kissed her neck, sucking at the flesh to leave a loving imprint. His other hand dropped between her legs, cupping her mound in a possessive palm.

"Tell me what you've done to deserve a spanking, my young recruit," he murmured in her ear, shifting slightly to give his cock room to grow.

"Last night," she whispered, casting her mind back to what seemed like an age ago. "Alistair accidentally put his cock in me when we were cuddling."

Duncan suddenly had to suppress a laugh; this was somehow  _exactly_ how he had imagined his junior officer would gain his manhood.

" _Accidentally?"_

"Mm," she whispered, solemnly. "He was rubbing himself against me and then there was a loud noise from outside – I think someone fell over- "

"Probably Birkas, at the ale again."

"- so he got startled, and accidentally pushed inside me. Then, " she blushed, recalling the desperate animal heat in Alistair's stare and the percussive thrust of his hips. "We… we _did it."_

"How was his cock,  _qalbi?"_ Duncan asked thickly, thumbing her clitoris as the breath caught in her throat. "The others have nicknamed it the  _Templar's longsword,_ as I understand."

Flora went even pinker, recalling how  _full_ she had felt with Alistair sheathed within her to the hilt.

"He's  _really big,"_ she admitted, trying not to giggle. "And it was good."

She shot him a glance over her shoulder, fully aware of the combined effect that her words and her nakedness was having on the older man. Duncan's breath was coming more raggedly against her neck; the circling of his thumb a little less smooth against her pearl. He was erect already beneath his leathers, Flora let her buttocks nudge against him in an unsubtle hint of what she needed.

"Anything else that you ought to tell me, young sister-warden?" the Rivaini murmured, letting his thumb wander downwards to nestle in her folds. _"Fuck,_ this is a perfect little cunt."

"Before dawn patrol this morning – when we were waiting for the others – I let Loghain touch me," she whispered, biting her lip as his thumb returned to paddle her clitoris. "He wanted to feel me without hair. And while he was touching me, I was… I was rubbing him."

Flora blushed, remembering their furtive fumbling within the shadows of the gatehouse; aware that they had only minutes before the arrival of the others and yet desperate to have a quick fondle before the day began.

"Is that all Mac Tir did to you today,  _qalbi?"_ he breathed in her ear, sucking another possessive kiss into her neck as she squirmed against him. "Play with your fresh-shaven mound?"

Flora shook her head, parting her legs a little wider to let his whole hand cup her; squeezing in slow, amused intervals.

"We had sex earlier this evening," she confessed, pinkening with pleasure at the memory. "During the Chantry procession. I thought it was you bending me over at first, and then when he was inside me I realised that it was the general."

She whimpered, head turning from side to side as Duncan pinched her throbbing clitoris between finger and thumb.

"You're getting wet at the memory," he observed, listening to the  _click_ of moisture between her thighs. "Little minx. How many climaxes did he give you?"

"Two," she replied, deciding that she wanted to be put over his knee there and then. "But both of them made me  _scream."_

As she had hoped, Duncan's irises flared outwards and then narrowed. A growl rumbled deep in his throat as he pressed his mouth to her neck; sucking a fierce kiss into her skin.

"Time for your penance,  _qalbi_ ," he murmured hoarsely as she squirmed with excitement against his thigh. "Let's see that little ass."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D


	53. A Most Pleasant Penance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To summarise the last chapter since it's been a while: Desiring some alone time away from the constant interruptions of Ostagar, Duncan has taken his young recruit to a local tavern named the Rose and Cauldron. Flora has just confessed her latest shenanigans, and it's time for her 'punishment'.

In seconds the Warden-Commander had put his pretty recruit over his knee, her pert and deceptively wholesome buttocks presented neatly for his inspection. He reached around with covetous fingers, tugging one ripe cheek aside to gaze at neat pinprick within.

"Mac Tir hasn't enjoyed this yet," he murmured, caressing the small indentation with the tip of his finger. "Not properly. The temptation must be driving him mad."

Flora let out a muffled whimper of assent from behind her crimson curtain of hair.

"He's desperate to," she whispered, turning her cheek against the blankets. "I let him push in a few inches and it almost  _killed_  him being told to pull out."

She blushed, recalling how exquisite the old general's veined shaft had felt nestled within the entrance of her little pucker. He had fucked her slowly, with just the tip, and she had almost cried from the intensity of it.

Duncan grinned savagely, pleased at such frustration inflicted on his longtime rival. Bowing his head, he pressed a kiss to his young lover's shoulder-blade, admiring the creaminess of the unblemished flesh.

"Well," he murmured, raising his head to admire the supple meander of her body once again. "I'm sure that we could work  _something_  out. Part your thighs some,  _amira."_

 _I've got the phallus with me,_  the Warden-Commander thought to himself, feeling the warmth of her core shift against his thigh as she obeyed.  _I'll get her used to being penetrated from the front and behind tonight. Then broach the subject with Mac Tir. I know he's shared women with Maric, in his youth._

Duncan raised his calloused palm above Flora's buttocks; she was fidgeting in breathless anticipation beneath him.

" _This_  is for taking Alistair's longsword between those pretty thighs."

He delivered a spank that stung but did not hurt, letting his palm rest tenderly on her rear as she whimpered.

" _This_ is for letting the general play with your soft little cunt. And  _this_ is for rubbing him back."

She gasped and squirmed, unable to suppress a squeak of delight as his palm administered two swift spanks in a row. Duncan slid his fingers between her legs to check her slickness; his eyebrows lifting moments later.

" _Qalbi,_  it's like a  _wellspring_  down there," he murmured, affectionately. "You sweet creature. Now, where were we?"

His voice became stern again, his hand lifting above her flushed buttocks. Flora turned her cheek against the blanket, blushing as she felt her own arousal running down her thighs.

"Again?" she whispered, hopefully.

" _This_ is for distracting your commander with such a  _perfect cunt_  that he had no choice but to delay his obligations and eat it there and then."

She yelped and the sound caused a delicious shiver to run through him; his cock now straining for release.

" _These_ are for the two climaxes that Mac Tir gave you," he growled, his palm making contact with her left buttock twice in rapid succession. The pert mound of flesh quivered in the wake of Duncan's hand, he curled his fingers in a squeeze. Tugging it gently, he eyed the impossibly tiny pinprick nestled within; feeling his pulse surge in anticipation.

_I'll glimpse the inside of the Black City tonight. I've never known pleasure like it._

"And I took Loghain in my mouth," Flora added solemnly, having forgotten the quick suckle she had given the general's cock to rejuvenate it for their second rut. "I kissed and  _licked_  his manhood. I need another."

Duncan hid a smile at her eagerness, but duly delivered a final stinging spank to her buttocks; his palm lingering on the curve of her rump. She squeaked, but even as he drew his hand away, he could see the imprint of his palm fading. The pinkness of the flesh was waning rapidly back to its usual creaminess; Flora's remarkable body already seeking to heal this most negligible of injuries. The Warden-Commander exhaled hoarsely, caressing the underside of her buttock with desirous fingers. He was painfully erect, his cock straining within the confines of his trousers. Having his  _qalbi_ sprawledacross his thighs - naked and facedown, her mass of hair spread over the blankets like a dark red tangle of seaweed – caused his mouth to go dry with desire. He wanted to put his mouth on her, his fingers  _in_  her; he wanted to take her in every possible way he could think of. More than anything, the Rivaini wanted to watch his Fereldan flower blossom beneath him, to feast vicariously on her whimpers and gasps of pleasure.

While Duncan was thinking on how best he could ravish his young recruit, Flora rolled over and pushed herself upright on the blankets. She put her arms around his neck and hugged him, guileless as a child; her breath coming in hot and erratic against his neck. The old Rivaini, half-ashamed of his own perverse desires, embraced her tight in return. He let his palm stroke downwards from her shoulder-blades to the small of her back, and then back up in a sweeping glide.

" _Qalbi,"_  slid free from his throat without warning, muffled within the tangled mass of her hair. "I-"

It almost came out for a second time that evening; a sentiment that was somehow even more inappropriate than a fifty year old man bedding a girl three decades his junior. The words sat on the tip of Duncan's tongue, in defiance of all his duties, obligations and sheer common sense.

 _Even if I was not the Commander of the Grey,_ he thought wildly to himself.  _Even if there was no Blight._

_I've known her less than two months. A mere heartbeat of time; the blink of a sea-giant's eye._

He needed to  _distract_  himself; to turn his mind onto a safer and less reckless course. After sucking a kiss into the delicate skin of Flora's neck, Duncan leaned back to savour the sight of her freshly ripened body, the creamy skin smooth as Nevarran marble.

"Lie back, baby," he murmured, hearing the hoarse edge of desire in his words. "I want to try something on you."

Flora lay back against the rumpled blankets, her arms above her head and fingers curling idly. Duncan reached out for the third tankard he had brought up on the tray; the heavy pewter keeping the contents suitably cold. He glanced sideways at her – she was still sprawled unsuspecting on the mattress – then reached into the tankard. His thumb and forefinger closed around an irregular lump of ice; he drew it out, holding it up for her to look at.

She blinked and Duncan smiled at her confusion: the fine lines deepening at the corners of his eyes. Without speaking – keeping his gaze fixed on her face – the Warden-Commander moved his hand forward. He pressed the ice against his recruit's small nipple; rubbing in slow circles over the tiny pink tip. A startled whimper broke free from Flora's throat, her eyes widening as they darted from his hand to his face.

"Oh," she whispered, pink spots of colour flaring on her cheeks.  _"Oh."_

Duncan kept the ice pressed to the little nipple just long enough to bring it to the brink of numbness; then moved his hand swiftly to the next breast. As the ice began its languid caress of her other nipple, he leaned forward to seize the first between his warm lips, lapping heated desire into the chilly flesh.

Flora wailed an animal keening; her hips arching against the blankets as her toes curled with pleasure. The myriad of sensations – the frigid kiss of the ice, the tender suckles of heated lips – made her gloriously light headed, the pulse between her legs nigh-unbearable. Soon, the ice was melting against her perspiring flesh, glacial trickles winding their way over the firm curves of her breasts. One drip rolled lazily down the valley of her cleavage and her commander followed its course with his tongue; lapping a slow and desirous meander down to her navel. Flora squirmed beneath his attentions, now desperate for release; the tension between her legs unbearable.

"Please," she whispered, her grey eyes clouded with over-stimulation. "Please."

"Part your thighs,  _amira_ ," he instructed, tenderly. "Spread yourself with your fingers."

She fumbled to obey, groping a hand between her legs to splay her slick and shaven folds wide for him. Duncan's cock twitched spasmodically within his breeches; he gritted his teeth and forced back his own climax. Retrieving another small, delicately pointed lump of ice from the tankard, he brought it to within inches of her small, swollen clitoris. He could feel the heat pulsing from her in waves; her arousal coating her thighs in glistening slickness.

Another helpless whimper drew his attention upwards. Flora was gazing at him, her pale eyes huge and needful; the haughty, sulky mouth that haunted his dreams from the moment he had first set eyes on her was now parted in desirous wanting. He smiled, sudden affection mingling with lust, and brought his lips very close to her ear.

"Would you like to come, my sweet comb of honey?"

She let out a sound that was somehow both  _yes_ and  _please,_ her fingers curling helplessly in the blankets. The old Rivaini thought briefly about prolonging the experience; but his  _qalbi_ was desperate and he did not wish to be cruel to her. Without further delay, he pressed the curved tip of the ice against the gleaming pink bead of raw sensation; simultaneously pushing two fingers from his other hand between her welcoming folds.

It took only moments for Flora to reach her peak; the rocking of his fingers and the gentle nudges of the ice too much to resist. She convulsed beneath him, her hips thrust upwards and her fingers curling into fists as a wail loud enough to rouse half the inn broke from her throat. Duncan made no attempt to quieten her; on the contrary, he coaxed forth a further climax before the first had ebbed away. The Rivaini loved it when a woman let herself be so thoroughly overwhelmed with pleasure that she lost control of her sensibilities; even more so when it was his sweet  _qalbi_ caught in said convulsions.

Flora sprawled back on the blankets, her hair in wild disarray and her mouth open in a wondering half-gasp. Seconds later, he had rolled on top of her in a single, powerful motion; thrusting down his breeches with one hand while propping himself up with the other. Nudging her thighs apart – she was still as boneless as a doll beneath him – he sheathed himself fully with a single thrust. Flora whimpered, still dazed from the intensity of her climax even as her hips rose reflexively to meet him.

With teeth gritted and strands of hair stuck to a perspiring forehead, the Warden-Commander fucked his young recruit mercilessly into the mattress. Each rapid stroke caused the posts of the bed beat a lewd staccato against the wall. Flora's breathless gasps were drowned out by the frantic creaking of wood and the strangled grunts of the man above her; each sound made deep within his throat.

"You – feel – so –  _fucking good- "_ Duncan managed to say, summoning a thin shred of coherency just before his mind shattered and his cock convulsed. It had taken less than a minute for him to reach his own peak – applying the ice to his lover's intimate parts earlier had already brought him to pleasure's precarious edge.

Duncan stayed sheathed within her until he was sure that the last of his seed had been spent; propping himself up on his elbows to keep his weight off his slender lover. He closed his eyes for a moment, head hanging low like some weary predator exhausted from the hunt.

When the Rivaini had regained some composure, Flora was smiling up at him, pink-cheeked and dreamy-eyed, her hair spread in wild tangles across the blankets. As he stared down at her, uncharacteristically lost for words, she reached up and brushed a strand of hair away from his sweaty forehead; tucking it back behind his ear.

" _Qalbi,"_ he said, hoarse from recent pleasure. "Did you enjoy that?"

"Mm," she replied; a true northern girl of few words, but he was determined to coax more from her.

"What part did you enjoy most, _amira?_ The spanking? The ice?  _Ah."_

This grunted exhalation was the result of him withdrawing from her, his cock soft and satiated. The remnants of seed clung to the glistening head, but – to his satisfaction – the majority had been spent deep within her.

"Yes," Flora whispered, nibbling absentmindedly at her thumbnail. "All of it. It felt nice. Thank you."

Duncan smiled down at her, oddly wistful; admiring the finely hewn angles of her face and the plush fullness of her mouth, turned down in its natural pout. With a soft grunt he shifted himself back onto the mattress, reaching out an arm to draw his pretty mage against him. She nestled instinctually against his shoulder, pushing her own errant strands of hair away from her face.

"Flora," he said, wondering if this was a label that had been given to her at birth, or was a product of her childhood spend in Herring. It was a simple and relatively common name, popular amongst the lower echelons of Fereldan society.

"Mm," she replied, eyeing a particularly nasty scar that cut a jagged course across his collarbone. "Yes."

"Tell me more of your life before you joined the Circle."

" _Was taken to_ the Circle," Flora corrected sternly, shooting him a solemn look. "I didn't go of my own wallishun."

 _The fuck does wallishun mean?_ Duncan thought fondly, rubbing his thumb down the smooth, ripe skin of her forearm.  _Ah, of course: volition. She wasn't taken by her own choice._

"Aye: was taken to," he amended, stroking a circle onto her shoulder. "Tell me about life in Trout."

" _Herring,"_ she said, unable to stop a wistful smile from creeping across her face. "It's the best place in all Ferelden, honestly."

This was a baseless statement: Flora had only visited a minute fraction of Ferelden's extensive territory. In addition, from what Duncan recalled of the northern coast, it was peppered with a dozen identical grim and ugly little settlements that clung to the cliffs like limpets.

"Did you live there your whole life – before you were  _taken_  to the Circle?" he asked, thinking  _tread carefully here._

Flora nodded, guileless as a child.

"Yes, though I don't remember my  _earliest_ years," she replied, not realising the significance of her own words. "My pa said that I almost drowned when I was – um – four? Five? And the saltwater got into my brain and washed away lots of my old memories."

Duncan had to suppress a sigh; the final pieces of the puzzle falling into place as though some smiling Antivan magician had turned over their hand to reveal a trick's solution.

 _This girl is no peasant's child,_ he thought to himself, half-wry and half-astounded.  _This is a teyrn's daughter; a Cousland born, if not one bred. No wonder she was sent away to be raised in ignorance: in this country, to have a mage child is seen as a flaw in the dynastic bloodline._

The Warden-Commander then realised that Flora was still talking, babbling away some incomprehensible nonsense about fish and lobster-pots. Feeling a stab of guilt, he lowered his lips to her crimson head and pressed a kiss to her hair; Flora smiled up at him, interrupting her own monologue on net-mending.

"How did you get this?" she asked curiously, tracing the jagged scar across his chest with a finger. "It looks deep."

"It was," he replied, wondering whether telling the truth would seem like boasting. "I was a reckless youth that picked a fight with something far bigger than me. Not one of my most sensible decisions."

"A giant dwarf!" Flora guessed, rather stupidly.

Duncan laughed, leaning back against the cushions as he recalled the leap onto the dragon's back that had resulted in a claw slashing its way across his collarbone.

_I brought the beast down, though. My gambit paid off._

"Something like that,  _qalbi."_

She shifted position; he admired the play of firelight across the high, firm peaks of her breasts. Now her attention was focused on a slender scar that ran down his forearm, a thin white line that could have been scored with a blade. Once again, her nail-bitten finger traced this outline of an old injury.

"What about this?"

Duncan smiled, temporarily unburdened of the vast and terrible responsibility he bore.

"I once fell down a flight of steps after accepting one too many pints of Antivan fire-whiskey," he said, catching Flora's eye and mimicking her characteristic solemnity. "I landed on a cat. It scratched me – the scar you see there – and so I chased it. Unfortunately, I then fell down a well, and was trapped there for three days."

The expression on his recruit's face was one of such wide-eyed incredulity that the Warden-Commander laughed out loud; Ostagar suddenly seemed a world and a half away.

_I'm in bed with a beautiful girl, and I have a full belly and a tankard of ale left. Andraste is kind to me this evening._

Feeling his loins stirring once more – the infamous Grey Warden stamina rising to the occasion – he reached out to gently roll Flora over onto her belly. One hand dropped to squeeze her naked buttock, slow and appraising, as though he were checking a fruit for ripeness at market. Flora peeked up at him through a loose rope of thick crimson hair and Duncan raised a deliberate, questioning eyebrow. Instead of speaking her reply, the corner of her full mouth curved lazily upwards; permission tacitly granted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this, my husband and I are staying with his mum in Seattle atm and living with the mother-in-law is not very conducive to writing smut XD Also that Duncan story is totally 100% true lol


	54. Illicit Pleasures

The rest of the tavern had fallen silent around them; its patrons either retired to their beds or slumped unconscious at their tables. The moon was full and bright as a silver coin, peering in with voyeuristic fascination through the window at the end of the upper passageway. Duncan had not bothered to draw the curtains; there were no other buildings nearby which might overlook their room. Besides – and this was perhaps the Rivaini in him – he liked the idea of taking his  _qalbi_ beneath a star spangled sky; showing off her decadent nakedness to the envious heavens.

He propped himself up on an elbow, drew the candle on the bedside table nearer to better illuminate the freshly ripened curves of Flora's body. She was still lying dreamy-eyed on her belly beside him, her cheek turned sideways against the cushion. One arm stretched out idly across the blanket, her fingers curled against her palm.

"Let me look at you," the greying Warden murmured, leaning forward to grip each rounded buttock gently between his fingertips. "I've neglected my duties in this area, have I not?"

She nodded solemnly, feeling a soft pull of flesh as he spread her apart. An involuntary half-groan stole from the older man's mouth as he stared down at the innocuous little pinprick nestled between her buttocks. The heat of his desirous gaze crept over her skin; soon, Flora heard the unmistakable slick rhythm of a shaft being stroked. There was an odd intensity to the commander's stare as he pleasured himself to the sight of his recruit's pretty pucker; gazing down at her with unblinking focus. She smiled shyly at him over her shoulder, delighted that he found her so stimulating. Duncan looked a decade younger with his hand around his cock; the careworn lines melting into the skin and his head tilting back with sheer abandon.

After a moment, the commander managed to scrape together some composure, shaking his head with an embarrassed grin.

"I feel like a youth with his first maid," he admitted, still not quite able to take his eyes off her. "Maker, I can't even stop myself."

Flora's gaze fell to her lover's manhood, thick and sturdy; standing up like a flagpole against the fading hair on his stomach. She licked her lips longingly, suddenly missing the fullness of him in her throat.

"Shall I take you in my mouth again?" she whispered, wanting to lap up every clear drop of arousal she could see coating the bulb of his cock.

Duncan let out a strangled groan, sorely tempted.

"What do you need more,  _qalbi,"_ he murmured, letting his hand drop to cup her pert buttock once more. "My cock in your mouth, or inside that sweet little ass?"

She gave a little wriggle on the blankets in response; offering her rear to him with a shy glance over her shoulder.

"As I thought," the senior warden replied throatily, retrieving the vial of oil from the bedside table. "Lie down,  _amira."_

Flora settled back on her belly, shifting her hips on the blankets. She felt the brush of her lover's arm against her as he leaned over to extinguish the candles; snuffing out the flames until the room was filled only with the warm amber light of the hearth. His lips moved to her ear, lingering there as he asked whether she was comfortable –  _she was_ – and whether she was warm enough –  _mm._

She rested her chin on her elbows, closing her eyes as the bed shifted beneath her. Duncan was now retrieving something from his saddlebag, which had been tossed impatiently onto the far side of the bed during their earlier exertions. The soft sound of a cork being extracted from the neck of a bottle followed; she was unable to stop herself from giving a wriggle of excitement, and heard him grunt a fond half-smile.

Strong hands gripped her shoulders, the fingers working themselves into the muscle with just the right amount of pressure. His touch moved smooth across her skin, made slick with the oil he had decanted from the bottle. A little sigh escaped her throat as he worked the muscles of her back; easing out any residual tension from the day.

" _Relax,"_ came the murmur in her ear as the hands slid lower; fingers splaying over her slender back. "My pretty crimson  _goshawk."_

Duncan had deliberately paced himself; ignoring the temptation of Flora's slightly-parted thighs. He lingered on the gentle curve of her hips, circling them with strong thumbs until she sighed. Only once she lay soft and boneless beneath him did he slide his hands downwards to cup her buttocks; curving his palms to encase the pert mounds.

_Thank the Maker for all the steps down to the Circle Tower kitchens,_ he thought to himself; squeezing the ripe flesh with oiled fingertips.

Flora was whimpering now, aware that the main act was almost upon them. He could feel her vain attempts to restrain her excitement; biting her lip to try and stifle her moans and hiding her flushed cheeks in the cushions. Yet she was unable to disguise the wellspring of arousal between her legs; when Duncan slid a gentle finger inside her slit, it made a sound of such obscene wetness that his jaw dropped.

"You little beauty," he murmured, admiringly. "You were  _made_  to be loved."

_Shit, well. There it is. At least it's ambiguous enough that the girl can interpret it how she wishes._

She shot him one of her equally indecipherable smiles over her shoulder in response; the corner of her full mouth curving lazily upwards.

Hastily – before his tongue betrayed him once again in the face of those curious, rain-coloured eyes – Duncan returned his attention to her buttocks. He spread his hands over them, admiring the play of firelight across the smooth, creamy flesh; then impulsively pressed a kiss to one and then the other. His fingers left swathes of oil across her skin, like water gleaming wetly on the curve of a shell.

" _Zahra,"_ he said under his breath, half-shaking his head. "Beautiful."

The old Warden slicked himself liberally, shaking out the last of the small vial onto his shaft and pumping himself through his fist to ensure he was fully coated. Reaching down, he drew her hips upwards, watching her face closely. Despite the frequency of their activities; the more experienced of the pair knew that it took more than a month to grow used to such a vast, new range of sensation. Flora's cheek was pillowed against her arm, her hair caught beneath her in a swathe of sweaty, glorious crimson.

As she felt the hard bulb of his cock press against her, she reached between her legs to minister her own pleasure. Instead, she found Duncan's hand already there; exploring the slick folds to seek out her hidden pearl. She let out a half-gasp as he found it, teasing it gently between finger and thumb.

"I'll take care of you," he instructed softly, in a tone that brokered no dissent. "Get comfortable,  _qalbi;_ and breathe for me."

As his fingers settled into a lazy, circular rhythm, she began to make small animalistic sounds of pleasure; her lips parted and perspiration running between her breasts. Gritting his teeth with the effort of self-restraint, Duncan pushed himself into her one slow inch at a time. It was the most exquisite torture; the tightness of her little pucker simultaneously drew him in while constricting him with vice-like grip.

He paused at three inches, and again at five, keeping up the gentle massaging of Flora's bud of pleasure while she grew used to the increasingly full sensation.

"How does it feel,  _qalbi?"_ he murmured, hearing the timbre of her moans become deeper and richer. "Better then Mac Tir's fingers?"

Flora whimpered her assent, pushing her hips back to take in the sixth and seventh inches. Duncan grinned, savouring the sight of such pert and creamy buttocks spread around his olive shaft. He leaned forwards to whisper in her ear, his voice hoarse with desire.

"Does it feel better than Mac Tir's  _tongue?"_

Flora gasped, colour rushing to her cheeks as he sheathed himself to the hilt, his sac nestling against her saturated folds. He grinned, leaning forwards to press her down into the mattress as his lips sought out her neck.

"I know you let him lap your ass as consolation for not letting him use his cock in there," he growled, enjoying her flushes and squirms of embarrassment. "I hear you lie belly-down on his desk and part your pretty rear with your fingers for his tongue to enjoy. Such a little minx."

"Eeeee!"

"My crimson beauty," he murmured throatily as she hid her blushing face in the blankets. "Ah, you take my cock so well."

The Warden-Commander began to move within her; slow and gentle rocks of his hips to get her used to the sensation. He could feel Flora yielding in subtle increments, her fingers loosening in the blankets as she began to relax beneath him. The roll of his hips became more exaggerated, the thrust of his pelvis more penetrative; he drew her hips upwards to sheathe even deeper between the oiled mounds of her buttocks.

Flora was now whimpering soft and incoherent into the cushions; the pleasure rapidly overtaking the initial discomfort. She felt deliciously full of the commander's richly tanned cock; her taut pinprick only just able to accommodate his impressive girth.

"Harder, please," she whispered, too shy to demand it outright.

Duncan grinned roughly, withdrawing all but his cockhead from between her buttocks. After massaging several more drops of oil into his shaft, he leaned forward; letting three inches glide back into her.

"A little louder,  _qalbi,"_ he murmured feigning ignorance. "I couldn't hear you."

" _Harder,"_ Flora implored, lifting her buttocks towards him in open invitation. "Please, I need it  _so-_ "

She did not get a chance to finish; pressed down into the mattress as he gave her his full length once again. Within seconds the Warden-Commander had reclaimed his rhythm, rocking within her as his own olive buttocks rose and fell. He could half-see their reflection in the long mirror, bodies of different size and hue tangled together and moving frantically. The bed itself seemed on the verge of yielding beneath their vigour. The wooden frame gave regular creaks of protest, as though complaining that it was crafted for the quiet slumber of weary travellers, rather than the enthusiastic activities of a pair of Grey Wardens.

Duncan felt his young recruit climax beneath him, her body quivering as wave after wave of pleasure surged outwards from her core. She let out a wail of ecstasy that rang through the upper floor of the tavern; the raw satiation in her cry almost drove the older man to his own peak.

The Warden-Commander paused briefly, his cock thrust halfway within her taut little pucker. Flora let out a whimper of protest, peering at him over her sweaty shoulder.

"Don't stop," she begged, squirming in a vain attempt to take more of his cock. "I want  _more."_

"I intend to give you more,  _amira,"_ he replied, leaning forward on an elbow in a vain attempt to reach his saddle bag. "That is, if I can get the blasted- I'll need to pull out for just a second, my cherry."

"Nooo," she protested, shuffling herself back on hands and knees to keep his cock sheathed to the sac within her. "I  _need_  it."

"You  _need_ this?" Duncan murmured back, rocking his hips with lazy deliberateness. "Maker, this is the  _tightest_ little hole I've ever had. But I'm going to make it feel even tighter."

Flora shot him a dazed smile over her shoulders, confused as to how this might be physically possible. The Rivaini leaned over and pressed a kiss to the freckles across her shoulder-blades, tasting the salt of her sweat against his tongue. He withdrew from her then, leaning forward to retrieve the saddlebag as she let out a squeal that was part-indignation, part-dismay.

"Whaaaa- "

"Hush, hush,  _qalbi,"_ Duncan hastened to reassure her, swiftly reaching into the depths of the leather pouch. "I'll be but a moment."

His groping fingers found what he had been looking for: lacquered wood, smooth against his fingers, polished to a dull sheen and gently curved. Shifting his weight between his knees, the Warden-Commander applied the last few drops of the oil to the polished length, irritated that he had not thought to bring more.

Meanwhile Flora had slumped onto her belly beneath him, her cheek against the cushions. She was still aglow in the aftermath of a particularly intense climax; dreamy-eyed and yet still desirous. The head of Duncan's shaft bobbed against her sweaty buttock, leaving a smudge of arousal on the taut flesh.

"Alright," he murmured at last, tossing the empty vial to one side and returning his attention to his loved. "Part your thighs for me, my blushing flower."

Flora obeyed, anxious to resume their activities. Moments later, she felt his cockhead work itself within her little pucker, stretching the constricted flesh. she reached behind her to guide his freshly oiled length between her buttocks. Once he was fully sheathed with his sac hanging against her folds, a half-whimper of relief slipped from her throat. Her face was flushed and her expression dreamy; she luxuriated in the  _fullness_  of him inside her. It felt decadent, and delicious, and she wished that the night could last three times as long.

_I've never had a girl who enjoyed her ass being taken quite so much,_ Duncan thought fondly to himself, pistoning his cock between her welcoming buttocks as she panted with incoherent delight.  _Sweet creature. Let's get her used to this new sensation._

Halting his thrusts, he angled the lacquered phallus against her slick folds; applying gentle pressure. Flora was so slick that the head of the phallus slipped easily inside; assuming it was a pair of probing fingers, she let out a little sigh of pleasure.

"Good girl," Duncan murmured, pushing several more inches of the phallus within the welcoming tightness of her folds. "You take it so well."

Flora let out a squeak of surprise as she felt this new fullness within her; twisting her head to try and see what was happening.

"Do.. do men from Rivaini have  _two_ …" she whispered tremulously, scarce able to believe the sensation between her legs.

Duncan had to bite back an incredulous bark of laughter; pausing momentarily in his insertion of the artificial phallus.

"Two what? Two  _cocks?_ Where would I have been hiding the second one all these weeks,  _qalbi?"_

"Dunno,"she answered after moment, vaguely.  _"Inside."_

The Warden-Commander let out a sound that was half-chuckle and half-groan, then leaned forward to kiss the creamy, freckled skin between Flora's shoulderblades. She tasted warm, and young, and  _vital;_ the salt of her sweat lingered pleasantly on his tongue.

"Hush,  _amira,"_ he chided, resuming the slow roll of his hips between her buttocks. "Don't distract me from the task at hand."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2500 words of SODOMY! :D Lol. Also featuring a moronic moment from Flora: DO RIVAINI MEN HAVE TWO COCKS.


	55. A Night Of Debauchery

The Warden-Commander fucked his recruit gently at first; the earth-coloured breadth of his shaft in delicious contrast to the creaminess of her buttocks as he parted them. Although he was used to taking Flora's little ass with vigour, he wanted her to grow used to the sensation of the phallus between her folds.

"How does it feel,  _habibi?"_ he murmured, sheathing himself fully as he leaned forward. "Describe it to me."

"It feels so nice," she whispered dreamily, her voice quavering as ripples of raw sensation rolled through her core. "I feel like I could come over and over."

Duncan chuckled, rewarding himself with several more lazy pumps into her rose-hued pucker.

"Good girl," he replied, admiring the stretch of the pink skin around his shaft. "I like the sound of that, very much. How does the wooden cock feel?"

"Thick," Flora offered after a moment, peering downwards at the polished 'sac' that protruded from between her parted folds. It was already slick from her arousal, which ran in beads down the lacquered shaft. "I feel so full of it. I can't wait – "

Here she blushed, absurdly shy before her commander despite the fact that he was currently sunk nine inches into her ass.

"Can't wait for  _what, qalbi?"_

"To have  _two_  inside me," Flora replied, pink spots flaring on her cheeks. "Both… at once."

She thought of Loghain's veined shaft and how delicious it felt when lodged within her cunt. The girl then let out an inadvertent moan of longing as she imagined it nestled between her buttocks; while her commander sunk himself to the hilt elsewhere.

"My sweet little minx," Duncan breathed, amused and yet incredibly aroused. "By week's end, you'll have your desire."

"Promise?"

"I swear,  _amira._ Now give yourself to me."

The obedient Flora yielded to her commander then; granting him absolute ownership of her body for the next few hours. He took her in both orifices with the phallus and his own fleshy shaft, alternating and then synchronising their thrusts. Only once she had climaxed for a third time did he allow himself to spend his seed within her, oddly regretful that the spurts were not directed into her womb.

Duncan requested that a bath be brought up; once it arrived, he could not resist joining his recruit amidst the soapy bubbles. Soon, water began to splash over the sides of the copper bathtub at regular, rhythmic intervals.

After lifting his pretty, yawning and yet still-desirous recruit from the bath, the Rivaini decided to take her on every surface within the bedchamber. He enjoyed Flora first atop the smooth surface of the dresser, her slender legs hooked around his waist as he slid nine inches of thick shaft in and out with militaristic precision. Then, after a few scant minutes of rest, he took her on all fours before the hearth; gripping her by the hips as she whimpered in throes of ecstasy.

_Fereldan girls,_ Duncan thought to himself in amusement, leaving the imprint of his palm against her buttock.  _I've never met one who didn't like being taken on all fours like a Mabari. My little qalbi adores it; she loves being mounted._

Each time that the Warden-Commander found himself growing weary – after all he was a man of five decades – he drank from the miraculous fount of her lips; greedily inhaling the vitality that rose unprompted from her throat. Each time, without fail, new vigour would flood his loins and his pulse would surge with adrenaline. The Rivaini felt ready either to fight, or to fuck; and his  _qalbi_ had ceded ownership of her body for her night.

Just after midnight, Duncan opened the wooden shutters and pressed his breathless lover up against the window. He savoured her squeaks as her hot sweaty breasts flattened on the cold glass; he nudged a knee between her thighs until she parted them to reveal her swollen folds.

"Shall I close the shutters?" he breathed hoarse in her ear and she shook her head, heat flaring in her cheeks. "Good girl. Take pride in that Maker-crafted body."

Flora had no idea if there were any late-night patrons stumbling out of the tavern; any residual shyness evaporated the moment that he angled himself within her. Her fingertips sought purchase on the frame of the window and the edge of a shutter, yet it was his arm wrapped tight around her waist that kept her in place. She let her head droop, ropes of hair stuck to her sweaty breasts; senseless to anything except the relentless piston between her thighs. Pleasure radiated outwards in waves that were almost too intense; every so often she would forget to breathe and find herself gasping.

"Come for me, little one," her commander breathed hoarsely in her ear, reaching down to thumb the swollen pearl of her pleasure.

His caresses were gentle; he was aware that she was tender. A sound that was part-whimper and part-sob escaped Flora's throat as she came almost on command, sagging in his arms as the strength left her legs. The window had now steamed up from the proximity of their exertions; her desirous handprints smearing the glass.

Aware that he had already reached his own capacity to spend, Duncan withdrew reluctantly a moment later. The Warden-Commander was mildly irritated by the unwelcome thought that his junior officer Alistair would most likely be capable of rising once again to the occasion.

_The lad is but twenty years,_ he told himself, hoisting his dazed and boneless recruit into his arms.  _Of course he can fuck like a Mabari in heat._

_In spite of your age, old man, you've left the girl well-satisfied. She's climaxed eight times over the course of the evening. I think she's all rutted out._

Flora was indeed utterly worn out from their exertions. She yawned as Duncan carried her across the bedchamber; by the time that he laid her down on the blankets, she was asleep.

The Warden-Commander gazed down at the girl naked on the bed before him, her skin still flushed from the fervour of their lovemaking. He could see a wreath of kisses sucked into her shoulder; a souvenir from his desirous mouth. The grip of his covetous fingers was still faintly visible on the delicate curve of her hip. As he watched, she rolled over – thoroughly sated from his affection – and nestled her face into the cushions.

In vain he waited for the chiding of his conscience, recalling the litany of problematic truths.

_She's three decades - and some - years younger._

_She's my recruit. I'm her senior officer._

_She's fresh from a Circle. She has so little experience of the world; she barely had time to learn her own place in it before I took her into my bed._

And yet he could not scavenge even the slightest shred of guilt at his own transgressions. His mind rebelled at the notion that he was doing anything  _wrong;_ stifling each protest in turn.

_It's very possible that we're all doomed, anyway. Why shouldn't she live her life to the fullest?_

Duncan sat on the blankets beside her, admiring the smoothness of the flesh that ran unblemished from the nape of her neck to the cleft of her rear. Her hair, damp with perspiration, lay in a tangle across the pillows like trails of crimson seaweed. Reaching out, he cupped one of her ripe buttocks within his palm; it felt like a firm Dairsmuid peach and his cock gave a twitch of interest.

_Ha!_ he thought wryly, removing his hand with some reluctance.  _Perhaps I could give the young lad a run for his money when it comes to endurance._

_She needs rest, though. I've had her plenty._

The Warden-Commander was aware that if he clambered into bed unclothed beside his young recruit, it would inevitably end in him mounting her – and, quite possibly, initiate another sexual marathon that would take them into the dawn. Flora, despite her weariness, had the careless impulsivity of the young; never hesitant to exchange sleep for sex.

To avoid the temptation of her body, Duncan managed to manoeuvre her into a nightshirt he'd found in a nearby dresser. Flora, who slept with the utter absorption of a child, barely registered the manipulation of her limbs into the confines of the linen. The Rivaini felt an odd poignant pang in his stomach as he noticed the sleeves draping beyond her fingertips. There was barely any clothing within the domain of Ostagar or its surrounds that would fit a slender girl who stood at five foot and a pair of inches.

_Nothing that I've provided my qalbi with fits her properly._

In an attempt to prevent his own body from responding to Flora's proximity, Duncan put on both smalls and trousers; stopping short of wrapping himself in his travel cloak.

_There. You've three layers of fabric between you, now._

After extinguishing the candles he clambered beneath the blankets, careful not to unsettle the mattress. At first, he planned to stay on his own side of the bed; even going so far as rolling over and turning his back on his sleeping  _amira._

_There. Now, get as much rest as your taint-riddled body will allow._

Unfortunately, the esteemed Warden-Commander of Ferelden had all the willpower of a child at a sweet merchant when it came to his redheaded mage. Within minutes, Duncan had rolled back over and drawn the warm and dozing Flora into his arms. She nestled drowsily into his chest, resting her cheek against the broad muscle and anchoring her fingers to his shoulders.

"Pleasant dreams,  _qalbi."_

" _Mfgnngh – mm."_

Dawn crept up on them like a thief in the night, sly and subtle; stealing away the darkness and replacing it with faded light. As usual, the Southron Hills found themselves cloaked in an early morning blanket of autumnal mists, the slopes and valleys entirely obscured by a veil of damp miasma. Errant soldiers who had spent a daring evening away from their posts were able to slip back under cover; whereas those sent out on early patrols cursed the lack of visibility. The Rose and Cauldron, situated at the foot of a shallow valley, was wholly submerged in the morning fog. The fresh-painted sign that hung above the door could not even be glimpsed from one of its own upper windows.

Duncan awoke after a suspiciously restful night, surprised to find himself both physically and mentally restored. There was no residual ache in his ageing body; no taint-laced nausea in the pit of his belly. He did not even have to clear the remnants of nightmarish visions from his mind; apparently, the Archdemon had left him undisturbed.

_The side-effects of having a spirit healed as a lover. I drank liberally from her lips last night._

Reaching a hand beneath the blankets, he stifled an amused chuckle; feeling the length of his shaft erect against his stomach.

_Another inadvertent consequence. Before I met her, I hadn't woken up hard in two decades._

Yet, for all the lingering proof of her presence, Flora  _herself_ was not actually there – Duncan's arm was curved around a dip pressed into the mattress. Blinking the clarity back into his eyes, he squinted around the half-lit chamber; irrationally worried that perhaps she might have wandered off.

To his relief he caught sight of her almost immediately, perched on the window-seat and peering through the glass. She was still clad in the overly-large nightshirt, one small, fawn-coloured breast visible where the material draped loose. Her hair hung in a rich crimson mass down her back, long enough to flow over the wooden window-sill like spilt wine.

Sensing movement, Flora lifted her finger and pointed, mesmerised, to the glass. The forest outside was entirely obscured in swirling grey; not even the stiff green bristles of the pine-trees that bordered the tavern were visible.

"It's like we're underwater," she breathed, turning her startled grey gaze on him. "We've a story about that in Herring."

"Underwater taverns?" Duncan asked, propping himself up on his elbows and admiring the slender curve of her calf.

"About drowned buildings," she replied, curling her toes subconsciously beneath his desirous gaze. "Many Ages ago, a dam-keeper fell asleep on duty – or! he was DRUNK! – I don't remember – and he accidentally let the dam overflow. The water came through and flooded seven villages. You can still see the foundations submerged in the sand when the tide is low enough."

_She has Mac Tir's streak of northern fatalism,_ the Rivaini thought, amused.  _I wonder if they share depressing anecdotes in bed?_

_I'm not sure that they talk at all, to be fair._

He pushed the blankets back and rose to his feet, striding across the chamber to join her on the window seat. Flora eyed his breeches with mild curiosity – wondering why he had chosen to sleep half-clothed – but then turned her face up to his and smiled. Despite her pleasure at seeing him awake, there was a faint crease of anxiety across her forehead. Not wanting the youthful skin to be marred, Duncan reached out and passed a thumb over the line; smoothing it out.

"What's wrong,  _qalbi?_ Ah, no -let me guess."

She peered up at him, her eyes as opaque and uncertain as the world beyond the window. The Rivaini kept his fingers on her face, since it reminded him of the  _expensive_ sort of artwork that he had never been allowed to venture near as a child. By now, he was intimate with the finely sculpted contour of her cheekbone the contrasting plushness of the mouth; the pedigreed features that contradicted the rustic timbre of her voice.

"You're hungry?"

"No," she said, then amended herself. " _Yes,_ but-"

"But, there is something else," he continued, brushing his thumb over the lofty arch of her brow. "I'll keep guessing. You are sore from last night?"

Flora shot him a faintly perplexed look: the natural rejuvenation of her body had already soothed any residual tenderness.

"No."

" _Ah,"_ he said, realisation dawning as he wound a thick rope of crimson about his finger. "You are worried about missing dawn patrol."

She nodded as much as she was able to with her head anchored to Duncan's hand. He smiled, letting the skein of hair unravel to a plump corkscrew.

"I have excused you from your obligations today,  _amira._ Another Warden will accompany the dawn patrol."

Flora blinked, mouth opening a fraction as she contemplated this. Her commander, no longer willing to resist the ripe creaminess of her throat, leaned forward to press his lips to her neck. She tilted her head to one side, one palm lifting to spread against his war-mottled chest. He left a meandering trail of kisses from her ear to her collarbone, inhaling the salt-soap scent of her body from the cleft of her breasts.

"Will I be on the evening patrol instead?"

Duncan – who had just been about to take her nipple between his lips – patiently raised his head.

"Not the evening patrol, sweeting. The Darkspawn swarm at dusk and I won't risk having you outside the fortress."

As the senior warden spoke, he felt an odd conflict of reason and emotion in his belly. His more rational mind informed him that Flora was best suited to the more treacherous duties, considering the remarkable potency of her shield. Yet the voice of common sense was drowned out by the instinctual urge to protect his young lover from potential harm.

"Ooh," said Flora as he returned his mouth to her nipple, teasing its rose-hued peak to stiffness with his tongue. "What duty shall I do instead, then?"

Duncan, feeling a vein twitching above his eye, lifted his head a second time.

"Infirmary duty," he said after a moment's thought, sending up a silent word of prayer that she would find this satisfactory. "Does that suit you, my diligent little dove?"

"Yes," Flora replied, the corners of the full mouth twisting upwards. "Yes, thank you."

"Now,  _qalbi,_ no more interruptions."

The Warden-Commander took his recruit's breast in his mouth once again, suckling the plump ripeness as he would a fresh peach. She straddled his lap, nightgown riding up around her thighs as she ground herself against the swollen flesh in his breeches. His breath came in hot and increasingly urgent pants against her neck as she rode his clothed cock; her head tilted back and hair tumbling loose between her shoulder blades.

Duncan was just fumbling for the buttons at his trousers, when there came a smart rap on the door. The knock was delivered with such military precision that for a moment he feared it was Loghain, come to forcibly return him to Ostagar.

"Landlady here," came a gruff and no-nonsense voice through the door. "You lovebirds got five minutes to get packed up, I got a party of dwarves booked into your room and I assume I'll need to  _change the sheets."_

As Duncan ground his teeth in rage, Flora slithered off his lap and scuttled across the floorboards. She had a fear of being told off by stern, matronly women, who tended to be immune to her pretty face. The Warden-Commander continued to fume as Flora packed up the meagre items they had brought – travel cloaks and a saddle bag.

Together, they departed from the room, and Duncan shot the proprietor one of his most malevolent glowers as she tapped her foot impatiently against the floorboards.

"Fine service," he commented sarcastically, to which she replied with a disdainful snort.

The Warden-Commander was tempted to take Flora's free hand as they walked down the passage – it hung so temptingly at her side, the small fingers curled inwards like petals. Only the fear of looking ridiculous stopped him; he was well aware that, if not for their disparate colouring, they could have been mistaken for father and daughter.

_Why try and hide it?_ his conscience commented, snidely.  _You're an old pervert who wanted a night of uninterrupted debauchery with a girl less than half your age._

Then, just as they approached the threshold that led to the main part of the tavern, Flora paused. Tucking her travel cloak into her elbow, she reached out and wrapped both of her arms around one of Duncan's, squeezing it tightly.

"Thank you," she whispered, peering up at him earnestly through the gloom. "For last night. I've never had  _privacy_ before. And it was so nice to be private with you."

He put down the saddlebag and embraced Flora fully, drawing her slender body close to his chest. Ducking his head, the Rivaini let his chin rest on her hair; closing his eyes in an attempt to retain some composure. They held each other for several long moments in the shadowed corridor, savouring the chance to openly display an affection that had to remain subdued in Ostagar. Their heartbeats fell into synchronous pulse; her breast pressed to his chest so tight that a sheet of parchment could not have been slid between them.

_I wanted more than a night of debauchery,_ Duncan thought defiantly to himself, caressing the small of Flora's back through her linen shirt.  _I wanted to be with her. We signed the tavern ledger as a wedded couple._

_Ah, the Maker has a twisted sense of humour._

Tender lips brushed together before parting; the contact necessarily brief since more passionate kisses always led to dark corners and the hasty removal of clothes.

As they untangled reluctantly from one another, Flora's stomach let out a demanding rumble.

"Ooh," she breathed, gazing down at her midriff in awe. "I'd better break my fast before my stomach eats my liver!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhohohoh almost time for the MMF, as promised in the tags forever XD 
> 
> But before that, a brief Alistair interlude. Alistair is currently wondering where the fuck his sister-warden and commander have disappeared to, lol


	56. A Morning Appetite

The main room of the tavern was still relatively quiet, with only a few patrons seated at its tables. Some were snoring and propped up against the cushions; these were quite clearly casualties of the previous night. One man lay sprawled before the hearth, the stench of stale ale radiating from his crumpled clothes. A bottle was still in his hand; the servant had swept around him with a deftness that spoke of long practice. A pair of elven travellers, wary and with collars turned up around their faces, sat huddled in a far corner. They nursed bowls of hot porridge before them, though the bland human fare did not appear to their liking.

The mist still assailed the windows; the tavern indeed appeared to have been submerged underwater. Even the ivy that covered the brickwork and draped in forest-green trails over the glass had been swallowed by the thick miasma.

As Duncan nudged Flora towards a discreet side booth, his eye fell on another pair of travellers. They caught his attention more due to their hunched shoulders and nervous, darting glances than their garb – but the closer he looked, the more clues to their identity he could spot.

_Torn-off patches on their cloaks where badges had once been sewn._

_A standard-issue sword from the camp supplier._

"Men," he said, the timbre of his Rivaini-accented words carrying easily across the tavern. "If you plan on deserting the Royal Army, at least have the courtesy of leaving your weapons behind so that someone else may have use of them."

The two men froze, eyes flickering like a pair of nervy  _halla_  cornered by a hunting dog. Their gazes turned, wide and incredulous, towards the corner where the Warden-Commander stood; his dark eyes fixed unblinking on them.

"Ward-  _Warden-Commander,"_  croaked one, in utter shock that their meticulously planned route of escape had brought them face to face with one of Ostagar's most infamous – and high-ranking – officers. "What… what are you…?"

Duncan did not flinch, his eyes boring into the pair with steady disapproval. His own dalliance – shirking duty to spend a carefree night with a beautiful girl – paled in comparison to their acts of the previous night.

_Desertion in war is a crime punishable by death._

To his surprise, neither of the two errant soldiers had deviated their stares from him. The Rivaini darted a quick glance at his side, and – to his astonishment – realised that Flora was not there.

_That girl is fleeter than an Antivan Crow,_ he thought to himself, amused.  _When she wants to be._

_What did she say she spent hours doing in the Circle?_

_Dodging Templars while sneaking down to the kitchens. No wonder she's so swift._

The two soldiers were looking at each other from the tail of their eye, and Duncan let out a low growl of warning.

"Don't even think of trying to flee," he said, a vague and ominous menace in his tone. "I'd catch you – yes,  _both_ of you - before you crossed the threshold."

They stared at him, the whites of their eyes standing out stark as their pupils shrunk in fear. The Rivaini held them both in his gaze, contemplating them with a slight curl to his lip. The other patrons of the tavern were frozen, eyebrows lodged in hairlines and tankards clutched in motionless grips. The innkeeper was open-mouthed in shock behind the bar, ale spilling out across the floorboards. Before the hearth, the drunkard continued to snore loudly.

_I could kill them both here and it'd be entirely justified. In fact, it's the legal thing to do._

Yet oddly enough, Duncan did not want to kill two frightened men before his  _qalbi;_ who had to have secreted herself somewhere nearby. He did not know  _why_ he was hesitant – she knew that he had killed men before, in all manner of method and circumstance – and yet he still stayed his hand.

_Well, I am not bound by Fereldan law._

"You'll go, but you'll not take gear and garb issued to you by the king," the Rivaini said at last, drily. "You'll remove it before you take a step beyond this tavern."

"Re- _remove_ it?"

"Strip," he ordered flatly, his tone inviting no dissent. The two men gaped; as did the rest of the bar's patrons. Even the drunkard slumbering before the hearth rolled over with a gurgling hiccup, roused by the sudden lull of noise in the tavern.

Duncan had not yet shown his sword, yet every man present was aware that the Warden-Commander was armed to the teeth. Rumours about the Rivaini had grown wild and unkempt since he had returned to Ostagar - running the gamut from the mildly dubious to the literally impossible – yet the occasional truth sprouted amongst the fraudulent stories. One such truth was that the Warden-Commander carried no less than five blades on his person at all times.

Faltering and fumbling with their buttons, reddening unhappily under Duncan's blistering stare, the two men clambered out of their armour. Swords and belts were left in a sorry tangle on the floorboards. At an impatient gesture from the Rivaini, their smallclothes were also deposited on top of the pile.

"Now, fuck off," the Warden-Commander snarled, channelling the general's usual foul-mouthed send-off. "And leave the horses. If I hear hoofbeats, I'm coming straight through that window and pulling your spines out through your assholes."

This was a threat straight from the gutters of Dairsmuid, and Duncan felt oddly proud that he had remembered it with such clarity.

The deserters fled out into the mist-wreathed undulation of the Southron Hills, unclothed and barefoot, lacking both weapon and transportation. The Warden-Commander watched them flee without remorse; for they had deserted the cause that he had fought for relentlessly these past few months.

With the excitement over, the patrons of the tavern swiftly returned their attention to their tankards, bowls or the companions at their sides. The drunkard before the hearth rolled over and went back to sleep; snores reverberating to the open-beamed ceiling.

Duncan glanced around, wondering where his young lover could possibly have secreted herself.

"Flora?"

" _Frotburga,"_ she corrected, emerging from beneath the nearby table. "Remember?"

"Of course," he replied, amused; reaching out to brush the dust from her linen-clad shoulders. "Frotburga. Let's break our fast."

She curled the corner of her mouth shyly up at him, and suddenly the Warden-Commander was glad that he had not slain the two deserters where they stood.

_I don't understand why it's important that she thinks me more man than monster, but it is._

Commander and recruit took a seat at the table beside the window, Duncan lifting a sheet of starched parchment from the bar-top as they passed by. To his amusement and quiet satisfaction, Flora did not lower herself to the leather seat opposite. Instead, she slithered in beside him, sliding her rear along the leather bench until they were seated side by side.

"What's that?" she asked, peering down at the unintelligible characters on the parchment.

"The menu," he replied, casting a quick eye over the paltry offerings. Half of the entries had been clumsily crossed out by hand; testament to both dwindling supplies and stagnant trade.

The menu may as well have been scribed in Ancient Tevinter calligraphy as far as Flora was concerned. She could recognise the letter  _F,_  which Alistair had once taught her; and that was about the limit of her literacy. Duncan, aware of his lover's lack of comprehension, lowered the sheet of parchment to the table.

"You've a choice between eggs, pottage, or fried bread," he told her, stifling a sigh at the lack of meat.

"Eggs," she said after a moment's deep contemplation. "What do you want?"

For much of the past decade, Duncan had not bothered to break his fast. He was used to awakening drenched in a cold sweat, with nausea curdling his stomach and the putrid-sweet taste of the taint beneath his tongue. He had possessed no appetite whatsoever; eating later in the day through sheer necessity to fuel himself, deriving no pleasure from the act.

Yet now he found himself ravenous, mouth prickling with saliva at the heady scent of butter and herbs drifting from the adjacent kitchen.

"Eggs," he agreed, smiling as she beamed at their similar choices.

To his surprise, Flora began to shuffle her rear along the leather bench; her fine-hewn face alight with purpose.

"I'd like to order it," she informed him, solemnly. "You fetched the food last night."

Nonplussed, Duncan watched his recruit warily approach the bar. The tavern keeper's formidable wife was mopping down the counter with a grubby rag; she looked ferocious and utterly immune to Flora's particular brand of eccentric charm. The woman's face grew less amused with every sentence that the red-headed mage offered; a thundercloud settling over her features.

Duncan tapped his fingers rhythmically over the wood, his unblinking stare fixed on his  _qalbi_ and the impregnable fortress behind the bar. To his bemusement, at once point in the conversation, Flora slid off her travel cloak and offered it to the woman, only to be met with a curled lip of disgust.

After several minutes, Flora returned to the bench; a crease of confusion embedded in her forehead for a second time that morning. Once again, Duncan reached out to smooth it away with his thumb, unable and unwilling to keep his hands from her.

"She wouldn't trade my cloak for the eggs," Flora whispered, her full lower lip quivering with indignation. "I asked her what she  _would_  trade for them, and she said  _coin!"_

Her eyes widened, earnest and reproachful. A single dark eyelash rested on the milky plane of her cheek; Duncan moistened the tip of his finger and touched it to her skin to remove it. He then – inexplicably – felt guilty about discarding it, keeping the eyelash on his finger until a draught dislodged it.

"People don't usually barter outside small villages, Flora," he explained, the guilt increasing exponentially as she peered at him in confusion. "Merchants set a price on their goods, and the buyer must hand over the correct amount of coin."

_Of course, she wouldn't have known that. A self-sufficient village such as Herring would have no use for coin, and there's nothing for apprentices to purchase in a Circle._

_You should have been teaching the girl stuff such as this, instead of tutoring her in the best way to use her tongue on your cock._

_You spent an hour last night preparing her to take two men at once; you should have been practising the fucking alphabet!_

He let out a soft grunt of frustration; just audible enough for Flora to hear. She assumed that he was annoyed at her lack of common sense – a natural conclusion for the young recruit to reach, considering she had spent four years disappointing her instructors in the Circle. Flora was accustomed to falling short of expectations; although she was sad that it was her mentor whom she had inadvertently let down with her inexperience.

Duncan noticed her crestfallen expression, and immediately sought to rectify the incorrect assumption writ plain across her face. He tilted her chin towards him, then leaned forwards to press kisses to her forehead, her up-tilted nose, her impossibly full lips.

_Ah, well. I've committed to it now: let the Maker damn me if He wishes._

"Here,  _amira,"_ he murmured, placing his coin-purse in her hand. "Some coin to trade for our breakfast."

Flora smiled up at him, her mood changing swift as a summer storm. Once again, she slithered from the bench and trotted towards the formidable figure of the tavern-keeper, armed with a more acceptable form of payment.

Duncan watched his lover, using the restraint he had honed over the years to prevent himself from intervening. This was somewhat difficult: first, Flora offered the tavern-keeper a single coin, randomly plucked from the purse. From the woman's ensuing incredulity and disgust, Duncan surmised that it must have been a  _copper_  coin.

Flora, made anxious by her earlier mistakes, now broke into a mild sweat. She upended the entire contents of the coin purse onto the polished wood; the clatter drawing the startled eyes of every patron seated nearby. The tavern-keeper's face contorted further – she clearly thought that Flora was up to some sort of trick. Before she could let out a bellow, Duncan leaned back just enough to catch her eye; expertly snaring her attention with the deep Rivaini stare. It sent a subtle and yet unignorable message:  _don't._

With gritted teeth, the woman plucked out the cost of the food from the haphazard array strewn over the counter. She then eyeballed Flora with increasing dislike as the redhead carefully corralled the coins back into Duncan's coinpurse; sweeping them in with her curled fingers. Several fell on the floor; Flora ducked to retrieve them and then hit her head on the counter as she returned upright.

"Ouch," said Flora, then flinched a second time as she received a blistering stare from the tavern-keeper. "Ooh, dear."

She wandered back to the table with Duncan's coin-purse in hand; unsure how smoothly her first time purchasing an item with coin had gone. The Warden-Commander was already shifting back down the bench to make room for her – he had been poised ready to interject.

"I ordered us both eggs," Flora explained solemnly, sliding the purse along the table towards him. "I think the woman might spit in mine. She hates me."

"Well, she had better not," replied Duncan, a surge of uninvited protectiveness rising in his belly. "You did well,  _qalbi._ I still remember the first purchase that I made with coin."

_As opposed to something snatched from a counter, or cut from a noble waist, or lifted from an unsuspecting merchant._

Flora settled back against the leather bench, tapping her fingers together absentmindedly. He glanced sideways, attention caught by the flicker of flesh; unable to help admiring the slender delicacy of her fingers. They were the smooth and creamy hands of one who might have been assumed to spend their life indoors. Of course, Duncan was aware that the marks and blemishes of Herring would have been healed by her body's natural rejuvenation.

_Those clever hands, which summon shields stronger than any mortal fibre from the Fade._

He reached out to lift one of her hands marvelling at all the differences between them. Her fingers bowed like drooping stems as he interlaced them with his own, warm and surprisingly sturdy. He noticed that her nails were bitten, and had to stifle a sudden laugh.

_She nibbles at these priceless fingers?_

The Rivaini began to circle her small knuckles with the ball of his thumb, slow and affectionate, and  _knowing._ She watched the deliberate caress of his thumb as it stroked her hand, her eyes fixated on the teasing circles; he heard her breath catch in her throat.

Duncan turned her palm over and let one roughened thumb follow the line from thumb to little finger. Her skin prickled at his touch; he could feel her fidgeting in the bench beside him. From the corner of his eye, he could see her biting her lip in an attempt to keep her composure. She was betrayed by the flush blossoming on her cheeks, and the uneven hitch as she drew in air. Letting his gaze meander downwards – slowly, so not to draw attention – he could see the distinct outline of her nipple tenting the cloth. Breasts as small and upturned as hers required no supportive band; he could see the pink of her flushed skin beneath the linen.

_It never takes much to arouse this one._

Duncan idly began to consider the possibility of fucking her somewhere in the tavern – perhaps they could return to the bedchamber, or find a shadowed corridor somewhere beyond the bar. If the tavern had been less reputable, the Warden-Commander would have feigned drunkenness and pulled his young partner onto his lap. A few small adjustments of clothing later, and he would have been nestled snugly within her.

The Warden-Commander risked the briefest touch of his thumb to her nipple, giving it a gentle stroke through the linen. Flora inhaled unsteadily, now barely able to sit still beside him.

_If her nipple is this hard, how slick is she between her thighs?_

_I'd wager wet enough to take me with no resistance._

He was about to say  _fuck the eggs_ and lead her outside to the stable, when the tavern-keeper descended upon them like a large and ominous storm cloud. For a moment, an amused Duncan thought that his illicit fondle had been spotted; a moment later, the woman had produced a large, ale-splattered cloth and draped it over the wooden table.

"Your 'wife' is clumsy enough with coin, I dread to think on what she'll be like with  _eggs,"_ the indomitable tavern-keeper intoned, dropping tarnished silverware before them with a clatter. "Try not to make a mess."

Duncan's nostrils flared, but he could see his 'wife' doing her best to stifle giggles from the tail of his eye. With some effort, he bit back the bitchy retort that he had been about to unleash.

"It's true," Flora breathed solemnly as the woman retreated with a huff of disapproval. "I'm a very messy eater. We didn't have forks in Herring, we just used our fingers."

She half-smiled at him, the corner of the plush and inviting mouth curving upwards. Duncan reached up to cup her cheek in his palm, cradling the side of her face as she nestled her head obliging into his palm. He had to resist the urge to slide his thumb between her lips, to feel the heated caress of her enthusiastic pink tongue against his skin.

"I wish I could use my fingers on you,  _qalbi,"_ he murmured hoarse in her ear, feeling her wriggle excitedly against him on the bench. "I can't stop thinking about your pretty little cunt and how it sang for me so sweetly."

Flora's cheeks flared, delighted by his crudeness even as she recalled the sounds of joyful abandonment that had escaped her throat the previous night. Taking advantage of this rare privacy, she had begged him to take her in every way possible; wailing out her pleasure towards the rafters. During one particularly potent climax, she had screamed his name over and over; lost in waves of sheer ecstasy.

" _Qalbi,"_  he murmured hoarse in her ear, his lips brushing over the skin. "I need to taste you."

Flora angled herself towards him, a flush spreading over her cheeks even as her eyes lit up with excitement. Darting a quick glance over her shoulder, she burrowed a hand down the front of her trousers; biting her lip as her finger slid between her folds. Duncan was unsure whether it was his imagination, but he could have sworn that he had heard a  _click_ of moisture even over the low murmur of the tavern.

Impatient, the Rivaini waited for her hand to emerge from her trousers. The moment that it did, he reached out to capture her wrist; lifting it swiftly to his mouth as the wetness gleamed in the hearth-light. Then he was enjoying the honeyed taste of her arousal; suckling her sweetness from her finger.

"Again," he ordered thickly, releasing her wrist with reluctance. "I've still an appetite. Ah, if we were in Ostagar, I'd be breaking my fast with that pretty cunt."

Twice more, she nestled a finger into her swollen folds for him to suckle; her nipples now tenting the linen of her shirt. On the third time, he instructed her to stroke herself a little beforehand; taking advantage of a loud game of Wicked Grace that drew the tavern's attention away from their shadowed booth.

_What a joyful creature she is,_ he thought fondly, watching his young mage slump back against the bench as she worked her hand frantically within her breeches.  _Look at how expertly she fondles herself now; a mere month after I introduced her to grown pleasures._

The hefty thud of the tavern-keeper's approach interrupted Flora's self-ministrations. Her hand was hastily removed from her breeches; she bit back a giggle that was half-shy and half-frustrated.

"What were you thinking about, little one?" Duncan asked, shifting in a futile effort to relieve the pressure in his trousers. "Tell me."

"Me, and you, and the general," she whispered back, her voice made low and throaty with arousal. "I want it  _SO badly."_

Flora did not admit that she was also desperate to see how Loghain's thickly veined shaft felt between her buttocks; she was sure that it would stretch the wrinkled pucker to its limits. The general himself had become increasingly obsessed with the redhead's tiny, off-limits ass; exploring it with fingers, tongue and even the polished wooden shaft of his ink-pen.

"You'll get your wish,  _qalbi_ , I promise you," Duncan murmured, the words barely escaping his constricted throat. "Fuck, I wish you could ride me here. My cock is in agony."

He closed his eyes for a long moment, gritting his teeth in a futile attempt to gain composure. When he opened them again, his young lover had vanished; leaving only a warm indent in the leather beside him.

_The fuck?_ he thought to himself, bemused.  _Has she suddenly learnt how to cast a cloak of invisibility?_

But Flora had not expanded the limited bounds of her repertoire. Instead, she had slithered beneath the table; lifting up the cloth and letting it fall in an obscuring veil behind her. Kneeling on the floorboards, bathed in shadow and yet prickling with a flush of anticipation, she turned her attention to her commander's lower half. Seconds later, Duncan felt slender, fumbling fingers plucking at the laces of his trousers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooh so I liked this chapter! Bits that aren't porn makes me feel like this isn't 100% smut (just 99%, lol). 
> 
> Poor old Flo completely doesn't get the concept of purchasing, in Herring everybody just traded stuff with each other, haha


	57. I Almost Lost Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the last chapter, Duncan and Flora were about to break their fast after a night spent away from Ostagar. While waiting for their eggs to arrive, Flo decides to entertain herself.

Flora knelt on the dusty floorboards beneath the table, shielded from prying eyes by the pale veil of the cloth. It was dim in her makeshift 'cave', but still clear enough to discern the shapes and shades of objects before her. This pleased Flora a great deal; she would have been mildly irritated if she had  _not_ been able to survey her lover's cock before taking it in her mouth. On several occasions back in Ostagar, she had suckled Duncan blindly and amateurishly beneath an obscuring blanket, usually when he was issuing instructions or dictating a written response to an apologetic official. Flora, who still lacked much experience, felt much more confident in her abilities when she could  _see_ the object of her affections.

Her slender fingers made quick work of the lacing on her commander's breeches – all Herring girl were intimate with both the tying and the loosening of knots. She worked free the final strand with an impatient fingertip; biting back an involuntary squeak of excitement as the senior warden's cock sprang free.

It was hard to resist the temptation to draw him straight into her throat, but Flora made herself pause. clasping her fingers tightly together to avoid the temptation to grab. Her mentor's cock jutted out from a nest of dark curls, thick and tawny, longer than the span of her outstretched fingers. There was something almost predatory about its defiant erectness; it twitched as though it had a life of its own. The exposed head was deeper in colour, and gleamed with the dew of his arousal.

Flora inhaled unsteadily, fascinated by the masculine beauty of the older man's cock. All three of her lovers were endowed differently; she could claim no favourite, she adored them all.

Leaning forwards, she pressed a tender kiss of greeting to the slick bulb at the apex of Duncan's shaft; savouring the taste of his arousal. Her heart fluttered with sudden emotion – this cock had driven her half-mad with ecstasy the previous night – and she kissed it again, long and lingering, whispering a lover's endearment.

Above the table, the Rivaini was beginning to sweat. His heart pulsed a frantic rhythm in his throat; the air escaped uneven from between his lips. His sac was now being lavished with adoring affection, a small tongue diligently lapping at the swollen flesh.

_If she puts those honeyed lips of hers on my cock once more, I'll be lost. I ought to stop her._

Instead, Duncan shifted himself to lean back against the leather cushion; letting his thighs fall apart with deliberate casualness. As he had hoped, this encouraged the stroke of curious and exploratory fingers; awakening memories of old pleasures for the veteran Warden.

Once she had pressed her adoring mouth to every heated contour of his sac, Flora returned her attention to the twitching shaft. She was reasonably confident with her single-digit numbers, and so was able to count off all nine inches of her commander's cock as she licked a stripe up the turgid flesh.

"One, two, four, three, five, six, seven, nine."

"Uh," said Duncan above the table, just about able to hear his lover's mumbled reckoning.

His attention was then diverted by the sensation of plush lips enveloping the head of his cock; her fingers angling him into her mouth. He heard her let out a small sigh of contentment; the noise was as erotic as any moan or gasp.

Flora was indeed satisfied; her mouth was wide, and made for pleasure. Duncan's cock fit snugly between her lips, warm and throbbing with life; she could feel a corresponding pulse between her own thighs. Shifting herself to a more comfortable position on the floorboards – after all, she intended to be there a while – the young recruit began to lavish her mentor's shaft with affection.

The sound of such enthusiastic, amateur suckling was unmistakable; there was no subtlety in Flora's technique. She plastered his cock with noisy kisses; took him into her throat with joyful exuberance; lapping from root to tip as though she were devouring some Orlesian dessert. Her fingers stroked and caressed the most intimate areas of his body; working diligently within the constraints of the leather.

_I let this girl do things to me that I've not permitted in years,_ the Warden-Commander thought, reaching beneath the table to guide the rhythm of her bobbing head.  _She embraces new pleasures with the eagerness of youth._

_Last night, I let her-_

"Eggs," snarled the tavern-keeper's wife, slamming two plates down ill-temperedly. "Where's your 'wife'?"

Duncan, whose hearing was enhanced by the taint that ran through his veins, felt as though the wet suckling beneath the table ought to be audible by all. He could hear each earnest lap of her tongue as it caressed the contour of his sac; her excitable pants seemed deafening. He wondered if the women was perhaps an imbecile: was it not obvious that – at that very moment – his 'wife' was kneeling beneath the table, coaxing his manhood into her throat?

To his relief, Flora's attentions were not diverted by the arrival of breakfast – she was too focused on inhaling the last few inches of her commander's cock. She had managed to take Loghain fully in her throat several days prior – they had been practising extensively – and now she was determined to reward her primary lover with the same treatment. She hummed contentedly around the thick warmth of Duncan's shaft, wishing that he could see how far she had been able to take them.

_What now,_ she thought to herself, feeling his cock twitch within her throat.  _What haven't I done?_

Beads of perspiration were now trickling down the Rivaini's fine-lined forehead. His pulse raced in his ears like the thunder of an Avvar war drum. The suckling of Flora's inexperienced, excitable lips, the honeyed lap of her tongue and the welcoming wetness of her mouth had driven him almost to the edge of lust-fuelled madness. If he'd had sufficient coin on him, he would have bought the silence of the patrons before stripping his young lover naked and bending her over the table.

Then Duncan felt a new sensation enveloping his cock; a warm, firm press of flesh. He risked a glance beneath the table and almost slid off the bench in shock. Flora had unbuttoned her blouse to bare her small breasts, leaning forward to hold them in place around his shaft with an expression of utter concentration on her face. The contrast between his tawny shaft and her milk-pale breasts was intoxicating; each creamy swell topped with a ripened nipple.

Sensing his incredulous stare, Flora tilted her grave and lovely face up towards him and smiled. She then bent her head downwards, lips parting in preparation to seal themselves around the slick bulb of his cock. He noticed that the corners of her mouth were slightly reddened; a consequence of his shaft's thickness.

The sight was too intoxicating for even the seasoned Rivaini. The moment that he felt the touch of her greedy lips, he felt his seed surge with joyful ecstasy; a half-dozen pulses sent down her throat. The inside of his belly constricted with liquid heat and pleasure radiated from the root of his being; potent enough that his vision blurred at the edges. He managed to bite back the inadvertent cry, turning it into a strangulated cough.

The Warden-Commander of Ferelden leaned back against the leather bench, the linen of his undershirt clinging to the sweaty contour of his chest. He took several deep breaths to slow the frantic race of his heart; blinking clarity back into his vision.

_By the spirits. This girl's mouth is the best thing I've felt around my cock – second only to her sweet cunt, and that delicious ass._

_And yet her technique is far from refined. Is it the intoxicating properties of her tongue that elevate mere pleasure to indescribable ecstasy?_

_I almost lost control when her mouth was wrapped around me. I was moments from taking her on this table, spectators be damned._

While Duncan had been ruminating to himself, his lover had been lacing his breeches back up; fastening the laces with deft fingers. A moment later, Flora emerged, pink-faced and shyly delighted with herself, reclaiming her seat on the bench beside him. Her shirt had been buttoned incorrectly and her hair was dusty from the underside of the table; otherwise, there was no other indication that she had spent the last quarter-candle on her knees.

"Ooh," she said, her gaze immediately settling on the plates of eggs. "Food is here! Good, I'm  _starving."_

An incredulous chuckle escaped the Rivaini's throat. He wound an arm around Flora's narrow shoulders, pulling her against his side and pressing his lips to the top of her head.

" _You little minx,"_ he murmured fondly into her hair, fingers curling against the crumpled linen of her sleeve. "I almost lost all sense and reason just now. A man of my seasoned years, lust-struck as a boy."

Flora was more concerned with her seasoned  _eggs._ Despite the fact that they had congealed, and looked less than appetising, she devoured them as though she had not eaten for a week.

After several moments, the Warden-Commander realised that he did not want to remove his arm from her shoulders. Although this meant that the process of breaking his fast was made more awkward, the Rivaini viewed the inconvenience as small compared to the warm press of her body against his. He ate more slowly than she, darting his eyes periodically to the side to watch her mirrored movement. She ate quickly and left not even a scrap of food left; a legacy of meals rushed under stern Templar supervision, and Herring winters where a meal might only come once a day.

"Alghhh mghhhh mphhhh," Flora said mid-mouthful, the words emerging almost unintelligible. "Mmmgh."

" _Qalbi,_ I can't interpret whatever ancient tongue you just spoke in."

The spirit healer swallowed her mouthful, turning wide, cloud-grey eyes towards him.

"Alistair will be wondering where we are," she observed, solemnly. "I hope he's not too worried."

"Oh, I think he will be," replied Duncan mildly, placing his own fork back in the empty bowl. "The last he heard, you'd ventured into the bowels of a burning building, then escaped without a trace into the night."

The corners of Flora's mouth turned down; her fingers pleated the hem of her linen shirt.

"Oh, no!" she breathed, genuinely upset at the suggestion that she had heaped more stress onto the broad shoulders of her fretful brother-warden. "I should've said something to him."

Duncan laughed, keeping his voice deliberately casual to counter the sour note of envy that had sprouted within his stomach.

"I'm sure that you can find some way to make it up to the boy,  _amira,"_ he murmured, glancing over his shoulder to ascertain the whereabouts of his travel cloak. "Now, come on – and let's hope that Ostagar has not been swarmed by Darkspawn in our absence."

The final bill for the night was settled with the tavern-keeper, who continually cast shifting glances at Flora from the tail of her eye. The cause of her wariness was not immediately apparent – she might have guessed that the girl was a mage, or suspected that she was a whore purchased for the night. Duncan had no desire to get into a further altercation with the woman, and so he handed over the requisite coin swiftly and without comment.

The stable-hand retrieved their horse, sneaking a far more appreciative look at Flora's leather-clad rear. Tossing the lad a silver coin – to the boy's startled delight – Duncan gave his lover a leg-up onto the saddle. Flora, never entirely comfortable on horseback, clutched the pommel with both hands; grimly determined not to slide off.

Much of the dawn mist had dissipated, revealing a damp and soggy landscape in its wake. The boughs of fir trees bent beneath the weight of sodden branches; the dusty earth turned to mud. In the middle distance, the twinned towers of Ostagar loomed like a pair of scolding fingers. They cast long shadows over the Southron valley; a chiding and oddly omniscient presence. There seemed to be a watchful atmosphere in the forest that morning, as though the trees themselves were holding their breath in anticipation.

The Warden-Commander and his recruit re-joined the main road that led back to the ancient stronghold; leaving both the Rose and Cauldron and their illicit episode of carefree pleasure in their wake. Duncan did not regret taking the night for himself – he had served the Wardens for three decades without pause – but he understood well enough that his place was within the crumbling walls of the fortress.

_For better or worse, it all ends for me at Ostagar._

The Rivaini briefly entertained the thought of excusing his absence for  _health_  reasons – after hours of attention from Flora's rejuvenating lips, he was fuelled by the energy of a far younger man. The notion amused Duncan for a moment, before he discarded it. He was the Commander of the Grey within Ferelden, and thus answerable to nobody. Loghain might dare to make some sarcastic remark about  _off-duty recreation_ , but the general held no superiority over the Warden.

_My word is as good as law within the boundary walls of Ostagar._

As they passed through a dense clump of pine trees, Flora spoke up for the first time since their departure from the tavern stables.

"Thank you for…  _that,"_ she said, uncertain what to name their night of mingled tenderness and debauchery. "I enjoyed myself a lot."

As she spoke, cold rainwater dripped onto her head from the end of a stray branch. The northerner, used to being perpetually damp, did not flinch.

"As did I,  _qalbi,"_ Duncan replied gravely, stifling a smile. "I appreciated your company a great deal, though I fear I've tired you out."

This was in response to the faint smudges of weariness beneath Flora's eyes, the bruised flesh more distinguishable against the pale milkiness of her skin. She twisted her head and smiled up at him; the tiredness only adding a deceptive vulnerability to her finely-hewn features.

"I don't need much sleep," she said placidly, settling back down against the firm leather of his chest. "I'll just nap on the saddle – oh! I might fall off."

He laughed in a rich and foreign cadence that sent birds scattering upwards from a nearby bush.

"I won't let you fall,  _amira."_

They followed the meandering road as it wound its way around the low foothills of Southron; the pine trees clustered so densely to either side that they seemed to be making some military advance on the path. The trees were old – though not as old as the forests in Ferelden's east – and their benches met overhead to form a dark, bristled canopy that kept the road in perpetual shadow. Myriad identical trails branched off from the main road, and unsuspecting travellers would not find it difficult to get lost. Signposts once planted by helpful locals had been swallowed by the forest; leaving behind only jagged stumps and rotten shards of wood.

Fortunately, Duncan was familiar with the route back to Ostagar and required no map or marker. There were certain landmarks that he kept a casual eye out for – an exposed seam of granite in a nearby hill, a vast tree-trunk toppled to one side, a wooden bridge over a stream – and these indicated that they were heading in the right direction.

True to her word Flora had fallen asleep on the saddle, her head tilted back against her commander's collarbone. A short while later, Duncan happened to glance down as she fidgeted against him; catching a glimpse of creamy skin within the poorly buttoned shirt.

Transferring the reins to one hand – the horse knew its way back to Ostagar anyway – the Rivaini reached forward to unbutton the top three toggles of Flora's shirt. Ignoring the chiding voice that whispered a reprimand _,_ he drew out a high, teardrop-shaped breast; cupping the pert mound in a desirous palm.

_Let's give her pleasant dreams._

He amused himself with her naked breast for the next half-candle; fondling the ripe flesh with finger and thumb as he coaxed her nipple to stiffness. She let out the occasional sigh in her sleep, the tell-tale flush of arousal seeping into her cheeks. They met no other traveller on the road; he took advantage of the isolation to expose Flora's second breast to the chill autumnal air. Letting the reins drop – as he'd hoped, the horse plodded onwards – the Warden-Commander now devoted both hands to the cause.

_Such pretty little breasts require my full attention._

Eventually, unable to resist, Duncan slid an exploratory hand down the front of her breeches. His fingers met with such audible wetness that he let out a half-groan of need; her folds were plump with arousal and her smallclothes were saturated.

This was too tempting of an invitation for the senior warden to resist. Within seconds he had halted the horse and dismounted, his dozing lover in his arms. Since they had met no other travellers, Duncan made no effort to find a more discrete spot. There was a convenient patch of vegetation at the side of the road; he laid Flora down on the damp grass while fumbling with his belt-buckle. Still half-asleep, she let out a moan of invitation, parting her thighs the moment that she felt cool air against her folds.

_She doesn't even know who she's opening those delicious thighs for,_ the Rivaini thought amusedly, sheathing himself in a single thrust.  _It could be me, or Alistair. It could be the stable-lad from the inn, or a handsome young squire from Ostagar._

_Sweet, horny little creature._

Anyone who happened to pass by on the road to Ostagar would have been witness to a pair of tawny buttocks pumping rapidly in the grass; small, pale feet propped up on broad, heaving shoulders. As it stood, the only spectators were birds startled from their branches by the sound of primal rutting; the wet slap of flesh, the helpless moans, the animal grunts.

It lasted less than a quarter candle; the Warden-Commander reluctantly aware that his presence was required back at Ostagar. He assisted a yawning Flora with the buttons of her shirt, fastened his own breeches and then manoeuvred them both back onto the saddle.

_We were owed this one,_ Duncan thought to himself, somewhat defensively, as the horse resumed its slow walk towards the fortress.  _That blasted tavern-keeper interrupted us this morning._

_Aye, keep trying to justify your own lechery, old man._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeheehehehehehe
> 
> Reunion with Alistair next chapter! He's like wtf where did my sister-warden go lol


	58. A Return To Duty

The drizzle refused to abate as the Warden-Commander and his young lover made their way back along the winding trail towards Ostagar. The twin towers of Ishal and Hafter – visible from any point in the Southron Hills – now loomed upwards like a pair of chiding fingers. In spite of the fact that the sun had risen several hours prior, the sky was shrouded in such a thick veil of cloud that the land below was submerged in gloom. The fir trees lined each side of the path like a guard of honour, their bristled boughs releasing a steady barrage of drips onto the riders below.

The Rivaini allowed himself a brief moment of wistfulness for the dry heat and egg-yolk sun of Dairsmuid; where rain was a rarity and puddles non-existent. Although he claimed only half of his lineage from Thedas' desert province, he felt far more affinity with Rivain that he did with the northern coast of Ferelden.

In contrast, he could almost feel Flora's contentedness; it exuded from her in waves as she turned her face up to the bleak, misting drizzle. Her hair was covered in a fine, spider's web veil of water-droplets and her linen shirt clung to her skin in a manner that must have been unpleasant, yet she beamed as though she had won some great prize.

_Northern girls,_ he thought to himself, cupping her breast in an affectionate palm. _I'll never understand their adoration of such damned miserable weather._

As they passed a toppled fir that marked a mile until Ostagar's gatehouse, Duncan slid his hand inside Flora's damp blouse.

"Wouldn't you rather be basking in the sun,  _qalbi?"_  he murmured, pinching her nipple gently between finger and thumb. "There are many places in Thedas where summer's heat doesn't die with the arrival of autumn."

"No," replied Flora, leaning her head back against his shoulder and closing her eyes. "Mm, harder, please. I don't like the sun; my skin goes pink in it, _ooh-"_

"Aye, sweeting, you've not got the best colouring for the heat," Duncan agreed, tweaking the rosy nipple until it began to stiffen. "Your family must have all been southerners."

She gave an indignant, albeit slightly hoarse, squeak.

"Southerners? SOUTHERNERS?"

"From southern Thedas," the old Rivaini clarified, stifling a smile at her affront. He circled a calloused thumb over the tip of her nipple, feeling the pulse of arousal within the flushed flesh. "Would you like to come again, amira?"

"Yes please!"

"Your little pearl isn't too sore?"

"No, no, not at all."

The Warden-Commander had just inserted his hand down the front of his eager recruit's trousers when – with supremely bad timing – a patrol of soldiers appeared on the path ahead, emerging from the trees. They were on horseback, and clad in the colours of the Royal Army. Immediately, they spotted Duncan and turned their horses towards him; recognising the distinctive Rivaini even without the garb of a Warden.

"Warden-Commander!" the captain called, relief dawning across his bedraggled features. "Thank Andraste! We've been lost for _hours."_

Duncan, gnashing his teeth in frustration, withdrew his hand from where it had been cupping his young lover's cunt.

_For the love of the Maker,_ he thought irritably to himself. _Why couldn't they have stayed lost for a few more minutes?_

The relieved riders fell into loose formation around the Rivaini, who gazed ahead in stony silence. None of them questioned the older man about the girl positioned on his saddle. It was now common knowledge about Ostagar that the Warden-Commander was having an affair with one of his junior recruits, and equally obvious that the pair had just enjoyed a night of uninterrupted rutting at some indeterminate location beyond the fortress walls. Despite curious glances – and a few admiring peeks at the fair-faced redhead – no one made any sort of comment or intimation about the unlikely couple.

They continued to follow the trial as a group; the soldiers grateful for the presence of Wardens and a barrier-mage. The past few hours had been spent in tense anticipation of Darkspawn attack. They had taken a short-cut on their patrol route that led them into uncharted territory. On several occasion, the captain attempted to engage Duncan in conversation and received only terse, one-word answers in response. Similar attempts with Flora led nowhere, since she was shy in the company of those she did not know.

Eventually, Ostagar's familiar crumbling gatehouse came into view. The horses pricked their ears and picked up their pace, eager to return to the relative safety offered by the decrepit fortress walls. Flora could feel Duncan sitting up straighter in the saddle; a reaction to the weight of responsibility that had settled across his shoulders once again. The past twelve hours had been a brief and much needed respite for the Warden-Commander, but the sight of the gatehouse and slowly rising portcullis had signalled a return to reality.

Aware that in mere moments they would be immersed in all the bustling and very _public_ chaos of a military camp, Flora let her hand drift nonchalantly down. Her palm settled on her commander's thigh; she gave the lean muscle a gentle pat. Duncan caught her wrist before she could withdraw it, bringing her hand to his mouth and pressing his lips to her knuckles in a swift, yet heartfelt kiss.

The resonance of the horses' hooves changed as they left the forest trail behind; thudding first against the wood of the drawbridge and then coming to a clattering halt on the flagstones. Servants and squires emerged reluctantly into the drizzle, reaching up to grab at dangling reins.

As he had predicted, Duncan had a reception committee lying in wait for him. The general, arms crossed and distinctly sour-faced, had positioned himself near the gatehouse with a small gaggle of officers and senior wardens. Although the other men were crowded back against the wall in an attempt to seek shelter, Mac Tir – another northerner – gave no sign that he had even _noticed_ the rain.

"Back at last," the old soldier commented snidely, watching Duncan drop down from the saddle. "That was an exceptionally long patrol, Warden-Commander. I assume that you must have found yourselves _lost."_

"Aye," replied an amused Duncan, taking the man's bait and using it to taunt him. "The mist came down and we were forced to seek shelter in a nearby inn. Charming little place, actually: good food, well-built hearths-"

The Rivaini lowered his voice, the words deliberate and intended for Mac Tir alone.

"Comfortable _beds."_

Mac Tir ground his teeth, eyes fastening themselves on Flora as she slithered down from the saddle. Turning, she caught sight of the expression on his face and went pink; dropping her gaze to her boots.

"Cailan wants to discuss his latest hare-brained scheme," the general continued, irritated beyond belief that his own presence was also required. "He's been kept waiting long enough."

Duncan gave a half-nod, reaching back to pat the horse on the neck.

"Then I won't keep him waiting any longer," he replied evenly, managing to keep the resignation from his tone. "Lead the way."

He shot a glance over his shoulder at Flora as he left, dark eyes warm and appreciative. Flora waved her fingers at him, in what she hoped was a subtle gesture; then turned her mind to her own activities for the day.

_I have infirmary duty._

_But I want to find Alistair first. He might be worried about me – maybe. I don't want to assume anything._

She turned towards the steps that led down to the Warden encampment, located on one of the long, sprawling terraces on the fortress' eastern side. One of the soldiers made a sly comment along the lines of being saddle sore as she passed; unfortunately for him, Flora was not listening and trotted past in utter obliviousness.

Similarly to Mac Tir, the northern native barely noticed the thin and persistent drizzle that fell from the heavens. It was not heavy enough to be classified as a downpour, and so was not significant enough to gain Flora's attention. Peeling strands of wet hair away from her face, she made her way to the cluster of tents decorated with the fading emblem of a griffin. There had once been a banner to mark the entrance to the Warden camp; it had been knocked down one night and not replaced.

Passing the smaller, individual tents assigned to the senior wardens, Flora headed straight for the communal tent that housed the junior wardens. Unfortunately, there was nobody beneath the mildewed canvas save for a lone dwarf. The sole occupant was seated cross-legged on a pallet mattress, steadily making his way through a bottle of something pungent.

"Where's Alistair?" Flora asked, dispensing with social niceties in true northern fashion.

The dwarf rolled a reddened eye upwards, recognising Flora as one of the newest batch of recruits.

"Your boyfriend _ish eshcortin'_ the river patrol," he slurred, returning his attention to the whiskey.

"Oh," said Flora, inching away surreptitiously. Dizzying fumes were emanating from the dwarf; she could feel magic prickling reflexively beneath her tongue. "When will they be back?"

_"Ushually_ 'bout nightfall," he replied, irked by her continuing presence. "Now, leave me alone, wee irritatin' lassie!"

Flora shuffled obediently towards the entrance, pausing just before the canvas flap. She turned, unable to help herself.

"Would… would you like me to check the schedule and find out what your duty for today is?" she offered, kindly. "I think you're a bit late."

"Fuck off!"

The wide-eyed Flora did as she was told.

It took about a quarter-candle for her to make her way to the infirmary; her journey meandering through Ostagar's many multi-levelled terraces and courtyards. Flora was not entirely sure that she had devised the best possible route, but did not want to risk deviating from what she knew.

The infirmary was located on a lower terrace, bathed in perpetual shadow by the looming spectre of Ishal. It was a dull and melancholy place, avoided by the other residents of the fortress. Suspicious dark stains could not be scrubbed clean from the flagstones, and dirty linens were piled in crumpled heaps near the pallets. The mattresses were arranged according to how close their occupants were to death, with a quarantine area for those infected with Blight.

The matron in charge was a Chantry sister in her forties, very much of the belief that prayer and the Maker's blessing would prove sufficient cure. Like most of her ilk, she was also deeply mistrustful of magic. On Flora's arrival at the infirmary, she was given a book of Chantry liturgy and instructed to read aloud to a row of soldiers with septic wounds.

_"If the Maker wishes it, they will be saved!"_

The healer, whose idea of treatment did not align with the priestess', nodded dutifully. She was already planning to disregard all instruction given to her by the Chantry sister.

_I don't need to pray. Or read. Well, I can't read anyway._

_All I need to do is open my mouth and breathe._

A candle-length later – with a half-dozen infections cured in her uniquely heretical manner - she was thrown unceremoniously out of the infirmary by a pair of Templars. The priestess, quivering with indignation, berated Flora for ignoring the prayer-book in favour of her blasphemous _magic._

Flora, after spending a short time crouched behind a pillar, managed to sneak back into the infirmary during the afternoon Chantry service. The matron and Templar guards left their patients to attend the prayers, and the redhead took advantage of their distraction. Over the next candle-length, she healed eight cracked ribs, two shattered arms and a fractured femur.

She was then ejected once again on the return of the increasingly infuriated matron. Fortunately, Flora was well-accustomed to being thrown out of places, after years of expulsion from various classrooms in the Circle. The mage, not dissuaded _– she still had an hour left of duty to fulfil!_ – managed to smuggle herself back in by hiding in a cart-load of freshly-washed linens.

On discovering Flora with her mouth affixed to a bloodied wound, the matron threatened to report her to the Warden-Commander. Flora had to stifle a giggle, imagining Duncan's utterly indifferent response. Unfortunately, the priestess' next threat – a thinly veiled reference to Tranquilisation – was a little too disconcerting, and the mage made a hasty departure.

_Should I have a bath?_ Flora wondered idly to herself as she made her way up the crumbling steps. _I don't think I need to._

**_You're covered in blood and other bodily fluids._ **

_But I'm not sweaty, though! You only need to bathe if you're sweaty._

_**Go and bathe, piglet!** _

Grumbling, Flora made her way to the nearest wash-tent. There was a queue of grubby soldiers waiting; usually, she would have been subjected to various interested stares, but her current bloodied appearance held little allure. She waited patiently for her turn at the bucket, mopping herself down and soaking her mass of hair as best she could. It took almost forty-five minutes before the brazier, teeth chattering, until she was fully dry.

The moment that Flora emerged into the twilight, the drizzle resumed. She ground her teeth; wishing that her spirits had some way of seeing the grimace contorting her face.

_I needn't have bothered with the wash! I'm just getting wet again anyway._

Her spirits ignored her in pointed silence.

Flora, damp ropes of hair hanging down around her untucked blouse, made her way back to the Warden encampment for the second time that day. Not wanting to risk disturbing the dwarf again, she asked a passing officer if Alistair had returned from patrol yet. This time, she received a more rewarding answer: the junior officer had indeed returned from patrol, and had been spotted up on the ramparts overlooking the eastern slopes.

Dusk was drawing in by the time that Flora arrived at the base of the ramparts on the camp's far side. The first ghostly stars ignited in the heavens; like ship's lanterns cloaked in a veil of cloud. The drizzle had lost much of its earlier fervour, misting down against the backdrop of crumbling battlements and broken pillars. Four-legged braziers had already been lit, although the damp wood stacked in their iron bellies produced great billows of smoke that prevented anyone from standing too near.

Brushing aside a fluttering moth, Flora turned her face towards the steps. Taking her time – the stone was slippery and poorly lit, she did not want to mend any more broken bones that day – the young recruit made her way up to the battlements. Ostagar had once been surrounded by a ring of solid stone, but much of these outer ramparts had now collapsed through lack of maintenance. The eastern section was the most intact, punctuated by several long-abandoned guard towers.

Flora lifted her hand, thin rays of light arcing from beneath her fingernails. On one side of the ramparts was the encampment; sprawling in vaguely-organised chaos across courtyards and terraces. On the other was a drop of two hundred feet, the wooded valley below submerged in shadow like some vast underwater canyon.

Yet Flora was not interested in her surroundings; she was interested in the whereabouts of her brother-warden. Keeping her gleaming hand elevated, she made her way along the ramparts towards the first guard tower. Climbing the half-dozen steps that led up to the elevated platform, she was rewarded by the familiar sight of her friend silhouetted against the far wall. Alistair was leaning over the smouldering brazier, trying unsuccessfully to nudge some life into the smoking wood.

He sensed her arrival even before she could open her mouth; a connection forged in their shared blood. He turned with remarkable swiftness for one clad in heavy mail, hazel-flecked eyes widening as they settled on her.

"Where've you _been?"_

The words erupted heated and ragged-edged from Alistair's throat, undercut with worry. There was a pallor beneath the rich olive of his skin that could not be blamed solely on the surrounding twilight.

Flora blinked, taken aback by her brother-warden's unexpected anger. She did not reply, but stared at him with her mouth slightly open; lips parted in astonishment.

"I've been going out of my _mind,_ Flora!" he continued, speaking quicker and with far more agitation than was usual. "I heard that you ran into some burning tower, and then… and then you just disappeared. Nobody knew where you had gone – I asked everyone."

Flora felt a twinge of guilt deep in her belly. While she had been cavorting between the sheets with their commander, her friend had apparently been ensnared by fear and uncertainty.

_I was too busy fantasising about how Duncan and the general would fit around me if we all shared a bed._

_It's going to be a tight squeeze. I suppose they don't mind rubbing together if they both end up in me._

"I'm sorry," she breathed, tucking a damp strand of hair behind her ear. "But you know that I've got a shield."

_"That's not the point!"_ His voice rose at the end, indignant at her attempt to mollify his concern. "I was _worried_ about you, for Maker's sake."

Flora gazed at him, wide-eyed at the passion that fuelled her brother-warden's words. Even in the muted twilight she could see that he was trembling; the broad shoulders held taut and the fingers flexing compulsively.

"I'm sorry," Flora whispered, and this time she made no attempt to exonerate herself. "I'm sorry, Alistair."

She made a tentative shuffle towards him; he stepped back, almost colliding with the battlement.

"We _slept_ together last night, Flo," Alistair replied, the words now emerging raw and tremulous. "I… I've been _inside_ you. How could I not care after that? I can't ever go back to the way things were, not now – not now I've seen you the way I have, beneath me-"

Alistair broke off suddenly, reaching up an impatient hand to brush clumsily at his eyes. He half-turned away from her, staring without seeing at the clustered tents in the encampment below. The drizzle continued to patter quietly down onto the flagstones; pooling in the cracks between the tiles. Although it was too early to be described as night-time, the cloud and dismal weather had brought a premature darkness to the ancient fortress.

Flora peered at her brother-warden for several moments, contemplating her next course of action. She was not eloquent enough to explain herself to him; she did not possess the maturity to calmly, _logically_ justify why Alistair need not be worried about her. She had just turned nineteen years old, and had no experience of relationships save for the strange, undefinable one she shared with her commander.

_If I can get him to touch me, he'll forgive me,_ she thought instead with childish reasoning. _He won't stay sulky if we're kissing._

Flora narrowed her eyes at Alistair's broad shoulders, willing him to face her. To her delight, her brother-warden turned around almost immediately, as though compelled by some intangible force. He gazed at her, frustration scrawled raw across the classically handsome features.

"You drive me half-mad, Flo," the young warrior began, the words trailing off as she lifted her hand to her throat. "You're such a distraction – I should be focusing on the Darkspawn – … wait, what are you doing?"

Flora made no reply, but gazed up at him unblinking; the full mouth still and contemplative. With deliberate slowness, she used her thumb to push through the top button of her shirt. The linen gave way to reveal the hollow of her throat, the unblemished skin quickly speckled with drizzle.

"Flo?"

The word came constricted from Alistair's throat; as though he were experiencing a sudden shortness of breath. Flora still did not speak, but loosed the second button with a deft thumb. The shirt now slithered down to reveal bare shoulders; hair hanging in dishevelled wet ropes to her waist.

He found himself staring fixedly at the third button, the one that held the fabric closed over her breasts. The rain had saturated the material so that it clung to each pert, apple-sized swell. The nipples pressed up against the fabric like little darts; a slight hint of pinkness visible through the linen.

Flora stole a quick glance at Alistair's face, cheeks flushing at her own audacity. As she had hoped, he was gazing at her with pupils blown wide and black with lust; his mouth part open and beads of moisture forming at his throat that had nothing to do with the rain.

Biting at her lip – she was still somewhat self-conscience in his presence – Flora pushed free the third button. The linen folds fell apart to bare her high and creamy breasts; she held open the shirt to let him stare interrupted. Several wet strands of hair clung stubbornly to the ripe swells of flesh.

"Maker's Breath," Alistair croaked, mesmerised by the sight of her standing there, beautiful and earnest; baring her breasts for him alone. _"Maker."_

She smiled an invitation and he readily accepted, striding across the rooftop in seven paces. Without hesitation, his fingers fastened themselves within the damp linen folds of her shirt. One firm tug and she was half-naked before him, wide-eyed at the sudden forcefulness. Alistair dropped the remains of the shirt at her feet, the breath escaping in short bursts from his lungs. There was a rich intensity to his stare that Flora had never seen before in her shy and hesitant brother-warden; a tension that rippled across the muscle of his back like a beast preparing to lunge.

"Alistair," she whispered and then his mouth was crashing onto hers; the kiss hard, desperate and fuelled by raw, ragged-edged passion. It was a short kiss – a prelude of what was to come – but it left her breathless and dizzied, grateful for the rampart wall against her back.

The press of their mouths had only further inflamed the young man's desire. He withdrew from her only a single pace, breathing erratic and eyes fixated on her flushed, astonished face.

"Take off the rest of your clothes," Alistair instructed hoarsely, a vein of command in the words that she had never heard before coming from her gentle brother-warden. "Now, Flora."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we can see how inexperienced both Alistair and Flo are at the relationship thing here - he thinks that it's ok to have a go at her for being gone without telling him, even though they've no formal commitment, she thinks that the solution to the problem is to take her clothes off XD Lol


	59. Alistair and Flora, Reunited

Alistair's request hung in the twilight between them:  _take off your clothes._ This was a order that Flora had heard before from her royal general – but from Loghain's lips, it tended to be an impatient half-snarled instruction. In contrast Duncan preferred to strip her by his own hand; he treated her disrobing as an element of foreplay. Yet when Alistair had told her to undress, there was an odd reverence mingled with the command; as though something rare and precious was about to be unveiled, and he was the sole witness.

The drizzle had not abated with the quiet creep of dusk. The ramparts were bathed in the bruised shadow of an autumnal evening, providing some measure of privacy for the two young recruits. Flora's back was against the stone rampart; Alistair stood a few yards away.

_Take off your clothes._

She reached down to unfasten her breeches, pushing them down over her hips and thighs. Not wanting to prolong her undressing she took the opportunity to simultaneously remove her small-clothes.

"Do you want me to take off my boots?" she asked, aware that Duncan liked her to keep them on during their lovemaking.

"Off," Alistair requested hoarsely, unable to take his eyes from her. His hands were clenched in broad fists at the sides with the effort of restraint; deliberately not touching. "I want to see  _all_ of you, Flo."

Flora obediently removed her boots one at a time, placing one hand on the ramparts to keep her balance. The first subtle traces of stars were beginning to emerge overhead; the drizzle gradually abating as night drew in. When she placed her second boot to the side and returned upright, she could have sworn that she heard a sudden, breathless inhalation coming from her brother-warden; as though the air had been trapped in his lungs for the duration of her undressing.

Alistair's eyes were blown wide and yet startlingly focused; moving over her body like the loving caress of an artist's brush. He gazed at the pert apple-sized breasts, each one tilted upwards like an offering; then followed the smooth incline of her milk-pale belly down to the flare of her hips. It had been several days since Duncan had shaved her mound in the Chantry tent; the faintest peach fuzz was just visible against the creamy skin. It was a body in the peak of blossoming; each part of it ripened and ready for tasting.

Tearing his stare from the tempting glimpse of a plump crease between her thighs, the young Warden returned his attention to Flora's face. She gazed back at him with the childish solemnity of a widowed princess in a fairytale; grave, earnest and lovely. Her damp hair fell in increasing disarray about her shoulders, each loose strand plastered to the smooth curve of her flesh.

"Maker's Breath," Alistair said at last in little more than a whisper; his earlier anger temporarily forgotten in the face of his sister-warden's nakedness. "I- I've never seen  _anything_ like that – like  _you-_ before."

Flora made no reply, but offered a shy smile; droplets of rain following the high contour of her wet breasts. The young man blinked, as though trying to reclaim some of the frustration he had felt mere moments earlier. Her beauty seemed to have drained him of all emotion save for wondering and raw desire. In an effort to claw back some indignation, Alistair pictured his sister-warden's creamy body writhing beneath the powerful, leonine frame of their commander; her legs wrapped around Duncan's waist while his lips paid a loving homage to her nipple.

_She was in bed with him while you were worried sick,_  he reminded himself, feverishly.  _They had a whole uninterrupted night together. He probably took her everywhere – more than once._

To Alistair's surprise, the overwhelming emotion that rose in response was not indignation, but  _competition._ Rivalry surged through his veins like something hot and liquid; a young Mabari challenging a pack leader for the right to claim a mate. A small part of him wondered if this desire for dominance was some legacy of his unwanted heritage – but the greater part of his consciousness was now focused solely on the challenge ahead.

Peeling off his gloves, he came at Flora so swiftly that she had no time to prepare. A half-gasp escaped her throat as he knelt before her, with heat and raw determination in his eyes. Astonished, she gazed down as he pulled one thigh over his broad shoulder; parting her creamy outer folds to reveal ripe fleshiness within. He exhaled unsteadily, his breath hot and desirous against her core. A calloused, coaxing thumb gently pulled back the skin until her pearl of lust emerged; shy as its owner.

Flora, utterly taken by surprise, could do little more than gaze down at her friend's tousled golden head. She could see him wetting lips with tongue in preparation, his fingers spreading her crudely open before him.

"Alistair," she whispered, barely able to form the words amidst the heat of her rising excitement. "Alistair, what are you doing?"

" _Staking my claim,"_ he replied hoarsely, already focused on the task ahead.

The young man did not have the refined technique of Duncan, who enjoyed her as would a connoisseur with some rare delicacy. Instead, he feasted on her with reverent lips and tongue, paying homage to her beauty with a convert's enthusiasm. Strong, lean fingers held her apart while he lapped at her; returning again and again to the tiny bud of flesh nestled at the convergence of her folds. He did not know entirely what he was doing – this was an act that the other Templar juniors at the monastery had only whispered about in coded giggles – but he had seen Flora come apart with their commander's face buried between her thighs; he was determined to elicit the same reaction.

"I knew you'd taste delicious," Alistair murmured against the inside of her thigh, taking a moment to pause for breath. "But I didn't realise it'd be so good. Maker's Breath, Flo."

He looked up at Flora to check that she too was enjoying herself, his fingers curling possessively around her bare knee. She was slumped against the low rampart, her head and shoulders drooping and her hair hanging in thick, damp tendrils. There was a somewhat dazed expression on her face, mingled with a delighted astonishment; she had wholly underestimated her friend's capability with his tongue.

"Do you like it?" he asked, a faint note of hesitancy running through the question. "Tell me if you want anything…  _different."_

Flora shook her head wordlessly, reaching down to anchor her fingers in his hair. Perspiration mingled with the rain, trickling between her breasts and running down the contour of her belly. Her breath was ragged; she sounded like a cornered animal at the end of hunt.

"Don't stop," she managed at last, the sound emerging as a whine."It's so good.  _Please."_

There was no placation in her words; the request was genuine. Alistair grinned up at her, delight punctuating the haze of lust. Resolving to double his efforts, he returned his attention between her thighs, admiring the sheen that glistened within the tender flesh. He passed his thumb between her folds, savouring the soft, slick sound of her arousal. The tiny bead now stood out plump against the wrinkle of skin that had once hidden it; he drew a circle around it with the tip of his tongue and she let out a sound that could have been a sob. Encouraged, he began to suckle at the swollen nub, using finger and callused thumb to keep her spread apart.

"Please," Flora whispered, her vocabulary now reduced to broken pleas and half-formed whimpers. " _Alistair."_

He growled against her heat and slickness, letting the edge of his teeth brush gently against this most tender part of her anatomy. At the same time, he pushed a finger within her yielding slit and curved it, seeking out the sensitive spot that she had shown him.

Alistair felt his sister-warden's climax; the spasmodic clench around his finger and the erratic juddering of her thigh. Flora let out a strangled whimper, her head drooping like a flower until it rested on Alistair's shoulder. He reached up to wrap an arm around her neck, careful not to use too much pressure; embracing her as a sudden flood of affection filled his belly.

"Flo," he said thickly, still tasting her sweetness on his tongue. "Did – did you-?"

She nodded mutedly – he felt the movement of her head against his arm. Loose ropes of her hair, made dark by the rain, trailed across his shoulder. The young Warden had a strange, sudden urge to knot themselves together with the decadent strands; to bind himself to her so that she could never disappear for twelve fraught hours again.

As he curled his fingers into the damp mass of her hair, Flora pressed her face to his neck and exhaled unsteadily; caught unaware by the entire episode. Alistair could feel the warmth of her uneven pant against his skin.

"Are you still cross with me?" she breathed, tilting her head to let him explore the delicate shell of her ear with finger and thumb. "Brother-warden."

"I don't know," the young man replied, clutching vainly at the indignation and alarm he had felt the previous night. "I – I missed you so  _much_ , Flo. I know that sounds odd, because we've only known each other a few months, but – I'm used to sleeping on the bedroll beside you. The… the nightmares aren't as bad when you're next to me."

Alistair returned upright, bringing her up with him; reluctant to loose her from his arms. They made an incongruous sight: him fully garbed and her Maker-naked in his arms, yet she appeared the more confident from an outsider's perspective.

"Is that the  _only_  reason you miss me sleeping beside you?" Flora asked innocently, tilting her face upwards to counter the twelve-inch difference in height between them.

He gazed down at her for a moment, admiring the symmetrical perfection of her face. Each feature – the full, overblown lips, the large and solemn eyes, the tilted nose – were placed with meticulous attention to detail, like a sculptor measuring out the classical proportions of the face. Below her face, he could glimpse the upturned breasts, the nipples standing out ripe and fleshy pink; the downy apricot fuzz beginning to form across her shaven mound; the slender curve of her thigh.

"No," he admitted, half-embarrassed and half-earnest; making no attempt to hide his own prominent arousal. "I wanted to have you again. Once – once  _wasn't enough,_ Flo."

Flora smiled up at him, utterly ambivalent to the steady drizzle that still fell from a clouded sky. She reached up to cup his cheek in her hand, tracing the strong angle of his jaw with a curious thumb. Alistair turned his face into her palm, his lips pressing reverently against the skin.

"Then take me," she whispered, her eyes pale and luminous in their earnestness. "I'm yours, for the night."

"The – the  _whole_ night?" he sought to clarify, finding himself suddenly short of air in the lungs.

"The whole night," Flora replied, a flush blossoming across her throat as she peered up at him from beneath her eyelashes. "And you can do  _anything."_

Alistair let out a strangled sound, high points of colour flaring in his cheeks as his eyes moved feverish across her body; hot with possibility. He swallowed audibly, then began to fumble with the fastenings of his padded jacket. Fortunately, he was not clad in full mail – this had already been returned to the stand – and the only impediment to his nakedness was the stiff linen under-armour. Flora, equally impatient, reached out to tug at the laces of his breeches. Her deft and practised fingers made faster work of the knots; she let out a squeak of victory as his cock sprang free from the linen. The size of Alistair's manhood was proportional to his tall, broad frame; it had been the source of much teasing – and secret envy – during his days as an apprentice in the monastery.

Flora stared at it, slightly mesmerised: jutting out from a nest of bronze curls, it seemed too forceful and aggressive to belong to her kind-hearted brother-warden. She felt her heart leap forward in a moment of trepidation – had he  _really_ been able to fit such a broad length of flesh inside her? It reminded Flora of the rolling-pin that her mother back in Herring used to pummel dough into submission.

_I took it the night before last,_ she reminded herself, firmly.  _And I didn't break._

_Remember: you didn't think that anything could fit… from behind, once. Duncan soon proved that wrong._

Even as Flora's mind quailed, intimidated by the sheer scale of her friend's erect manhood; her body responded in eager anticipation of such a treat. She was already slick and ready between her legs, her lips moist and her pupils huge and black with need.

Alistair had still not managed to free himself from the tunic, but his patience had run out. Abandoning the effort, he instead thrust his breeches down his thighs with a half-snarl; reaching out to the naked girl before him. Neither of them spoke, moving with the same unthinking coordination that they showed on the battlefield. Flora wrapped her arms around his neck and he drew her thighs around his waist, gripping them from underneath. His hand and her hand tangled together at the base of his shaft; she wriggled against his hips in an effort to present a more accessible angle.

Enthusiasm and mutual need made up for inexperience, and soon they had managed to align sword with sheath. By now, beads of perspiration were breaking out across Alistair's foreheads; symptoms of his straining self-restraint. His eyes met Flora's, the green flecks in the haze standing out sharp and raw.

"Please," he said, and now it was his turn to entreat her. "Flo, I – I  _need_ to be inside you."

Flora nodded, and the young warden let out a half-groan of relief; sheathing himself to the root in a single, upwards thrust. She let out a startled gasp at the sudden sense of  _fullness_ within her, eyes wide and lips parting; her arms tightened reflexively around his neck. In response, Alistair nuzzled his face against her throat, murmuring something soft and incoherent. There was a natural calmness about her brother-warden's voice when he lowered it; a soothing rumble that must have been adept at placating nervy horses.

After a few moments, he caught her eye with a tentative question. Flora nodded wordlessly, feeling his hands slide down from her thighs to cup her buttocks. With little difficulty – there was a foot in height and almost a hundred pounds in weight difference between them – he began to bounce her on the length of his jutting shaft.

Alistair's tawny buttocks swiftly found an instinctual rhythm, clenching and loosening with each roll of his hips. The relentless driving slap of flesh began to echo about the ramparts, audible even over the gentle patter of the drizzle. Her small breasts juddered with each thrust; she tilted her head back, oxblood hair streaming between her shoulder blades, and wailed.

Similar animalistic noises came from her gentle brother-warden as he controlled the rock of her hips; possessive fingers cupping each pert mound of her ass. The strong muscle of Alistair's thighs, more commonly used to aid in the heat of battle, now supported his friend's weight as she writhed around him, joyfully impaled.

Unprompted, Flora propelled herself forward for a kiss. The young man interrupted the drive of his hips to meet the demands of her mouth. Their tongues met and writhed together, demanding and taking in equal part; he groaned his desire into her mouth and she gasped back her identical need. The passion of their tangled lips took both by surprise; they stared at each other in lust-clouded astonishment when they finally parted.

It took a moment for Alistair to resume the thrust of his buttocks; he was temporarily mesmerised by the erotic beauty of his sister-warden's face as she gazed dazedly at him, swollen lips parted and a sheen of perspiration across her forehead. Her eyelashes were clumped together by the rain, the faint tan freckles on her nose stood out like flecks from a painter's brush.

_This is how Flo looks when I'm inside her,_ Alistair thought wildly to himself, wishing that there was some way to preserve the moment in eternal, crystalline detail.  _Maker,_   _I could stare at this girl forever._

A whimper escaped Flora's throat, ragged and needful. Obedient, he lifted her by the buttocks – feeling the sudden, sharp loss as his cock slid from her – and then sheathed himself again with a groan, adoration flaring hot and bright in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awwwwwwwwwwwww this was cute


	60. A Run-In With The Templars

The next few days passed with little disturbance, both within the camp and beyond its crumbling boundaries. The Chantry seemed somehow less officious; the mages raised no complaints about heavy-handed treatment from the Templars. No fights broke out amongst the ranks, and the men of the Grey managed to avoid offending any passing noble. Even the Warden-Commander and the Royal General appeared to be acting fractionally more civil towards one another. This temporary accord was possibly due to mutual incredulity at Cailan's latest hare-brained scheme: taking five thousand soldiers to lay waste to the labyrinthine hellscape of the Deep Roads.

The Darkspawn too appeared to have taken a mid-autumnal break from their harassing of the watchtowers. Apart from a few rogue sightings on the outskirts of the Wilds, their enemy was proving surprisingly elusive. Duncan took full advantage of this lull in activities: ordering his senior wardens to arrange training for the inexperienced recruits of the Royal Army. Many of them, despite being stationed at Ostagar for months, had not yet encountered the Blight-bearers in the wild. The Rivaini harboured an odd sense of responsibility for these young soldiers, freshly conscripted from small towns and villages across the Bannorn.

Meanwhile the junior Wardens were assigned various mundane duties: patrol, guarding the watchtowers, checking the perimeters of the decrepit fortress. Alistair, despite his humble status as a recruit, was summoned to assist the senior Wardens in their training sessions. What he lacked in experience, he made up for in valour and steadfastness; qualities which Duncan wanted to impart on the young soldiers. A trickier question was how to occupy their young healer. Flora had cleared the infirmary of patients over the course of a single day, then immediately asked for her next duty. The Warden-Commander had explicitly banned her from venturing beyond the fortress walls without Alistair; she was offensively useless and could not assist in the training of troops; she was illiterate, so could not complete mundane paperwork for her superiors.

At a loss, the senior Wardens duly gave Flora a list of menial chores to complete. She spent a day assisting in the cook-tent, and another day in the laundry. On the realisation that one of their water-reservoirs had been tainted with some foul matter – only discovered when one unit from Redcliffe was stricken with dysentery – she spent six hours with her hands immersed in the water-vat, cleansing the corruption.

On the fourth day, Flora had spent much of the afternoon polishing various destructive items in the Lost Equipment tent. She had an aptitude for cleaning, after spending four years on similar chores during her tenure at the Circle. The senior Wardens were relieved that they had found a nature of 'duty' that both suited Flora and pleased Duncan, who checked his lover's assignments each morning without fail. The Warden-Commander was aware that he was perhaps erring on the  _over-protective_ side, considering Flora's abilities; but he was also cognisant of her lack of experience and worldliness. During her time in the Circle she rarely needed to make decisions for herself, and never made calls of judgement. She had a streak of recklessness that alarmed the Warden-Commander, and he bluntly refused Loghain's requests to assign his healer to various units.

_She's uniquely gifted,_ he'd retorted when an irate Loghain enquired as to  _why_ their most skilled shield-mage was washing pots instead of on patrol.  _It would be foolish to risk a talent like hers on non-essential duties._

_Well, that's a change of tune,_ the general had remarked, sarcastically.  _You were happy for her to accompany my morning patrols up until last week._

_Or, perhaps, a change of heart?_

Duncan had not denied the charge, but remained tight-lipped and stubborn in his refusal.

_Unless either Alistair or myself accompanies her, she doesn't leave the fortress._

Flora, unaware of such altercation, was more than content to complete her daily chores.

On the fifth day, the weather took a turn for the worse. Fereldan autumns had a habit of lulling one into complacency with week after week of dreary dampness, and then catching one unaware with a sudden, vicious plunge in temperature. The residents of Ostagar woke shivering, with frost on the  _insides_ of the tents and a light covering of snowfall across the crumbling terraces. The wind had also reclaimed its winter voice, screaming between the towers and parapets of the ancient fortress.

Flora, a child of the north, adopted a Herring mindset when it came to such weather. Instead of huddling beside braziers, or running from tent to tent, she simply added  _more layers_. Two pairs of breeches hid three pairs of socks, and a pair of tunics were topped with three separate woollen jumpers. As a result, she grew to twice her normal size and was forced to waddle everywhere; but could carry out her chores relatively unimpeded.

A thin and miserable grey drizzle began to fall just as the last rays of anaemic sunlight filtered through the fortress. Unbothered by the rain – four years in a Circle had not softened her in that regard – Flora made her way towards her last stop of the day. She had a wooden tray full of freshly washed pots and pans, each one scrubbed clean of last night's dinner. All she needed to do now was return them to the mess tent, ready for the preparation of tomorrow's breakfast.

Carefully clutching the edges of the wooden tray with rain-numbed fingers, the well-padded Flora shuffled her way towards the communal terrace. She  _almost_  knew her way around the old fortress by now, but was still more than capable of getting herself lost if she didn't concentrate on her route.

_Down the stairs beside the broken pillar. Then around the back of the Chantry terrace. Past the gatehouse, and up to the right._

A glint of dull silver caught her eye from ahead, and she came to an abrupt halt. Dismay swelled in her throat before she could swallow it, sour and unwelcome. Two Templars stood at the top of the steps, clad from head to toe in their customary garb. The visors on their helmets were tilted back to allow them to converse more easily. Their voices were muffled by the damp air and drizzle; but the vitriol in the exchange was unmistakeable.

Flora hesitated for a long moment. did not like to cross paths with Templars at the best of times, let alone ones who were irate. She had known each of the Templars posted at the Circle – they had been stern but fair – yet these men were a strange and unknown quantity. Finally, plucking up her courage, she took a step towards them: an odd figure clutching a tray of cooking utensils and swaddled in multiple layers of wool.

"… doesn't even insist that his men come to the Chantry services," one was saying, in tones of naked outrage. "Bloody blasphemous is what it is. And this is the man meant to be in charge?"

"Aye," agreed his comrade, narrowing his eyes through the drizzle. "It's a disgrace. I don't know why the king puts up with it. He should put the man in the stocks."

Flora, not entirely sure what they were talking about, decided to make a rapid retreat. She was just about to inch backwards as unobtrusively as possible, when the Templar's next comment sidled towards her like a snake in the grass.

"He's a Rivaini, though. Maker knows that they're all blasted heathens. One step above savages."

"I'd put Rivainis on the same level as  _Qunari,"_ said the second, earnestly. "Godless witches, the lot of 'em."

_**You do not need to get involved, child,**_ came the whisper in the back of Flora's skull.  _ **Your lover does not require you to defend him.**_

Flora stood motionless on the damp flagstones, clutching the tray of pots and pans. She could feel a strand of hair plastered to her nose, having made a wilful escape from beneath her woollen cap.

_But – but –_

_**It would not be wise to provoke them.** _

"Don't see why we should all be taking orders from a barbarian," added the first Templar, squinting out across the jagged silhouettes of crumbling wall and broken pillar beneath him. "Put Mac Tir in charge. We ought to have a Fereldan commander anyway."

"People from Rivain aren't  _barbarians!"_ mumbled Flora, heart racing but unable to stop herself. She had only a vague idea what a  _barbarian_ was, but knew that it was not complimentary.

Both Templars turned to gape at her, lifting their visors to take her in more fully. Their astonishment would have been comical, save for the ominous tug of anger at the corner of their mouths. They focused on the oddly dressed creature before them, incredulous that what appeared to be a humble servant had dared to interrupt them.

"They believe in different things," croaked Flora, with a sense of desperate abandon now that she had committed to her course. "But just  _different._ Not worse. And not  _below_ anyone."

She recalled what Duncan had told her about his years in Rivain; about soothsayers, and seers, and shamans who inhaled burning herbs to communicate with the Fade. He had first named her as  _spirit healer_ afterhaving met several during his time in Thedas' far north.

The Templars continued to stare at her, utterly taken aback that they had been challenged. The first man - face contorting in ugly disbelief – angled his body fully towards her; the flecked sword glinting in his breastplate.

"Who are  _you,_ impudent chit?"he demanded, belligerent and unapologetic. "And what business do you have eavesdropping?"

"Duncan is a good commander," Flora continued miserably, aware of the resigned silence from her spirits. "He's the best man for the job. It doesn't matter that he's from Rivain."

The two men reacted differently to such an unwelcome lesson: one let out a rather nasty laugh, the other's face contorted in a snarl.

"You've got no idea what you're talking about, you ignorant little  _bitch,"_ began the latter, stepping forward.

As he approached, Flora's distinctive features emerged more clearly from the shadow, and partial recognition dawned.

"Ah, but you're that Warden healer," he said, the disgust raw in his voice. "A  _mage._ No wonder you defend the heathen!"

The first Templar stopped laughing, his eyes narrowing in an instant like a predator sighting prey. He advanced to flank his colleague; one hand dropping to caress the hilt of his sword.

Despite the chill in the air, Flora felt perspiration beading across her forehead. She wondered if she should put down the tray of pots and pans in preparation to shield herself. The next moment, she remembered that they could negate her magic with a simple word; their unique abilities honed to counter her own.

_**This is what your recklessness accomplishes, little one.** _

Without warning, the elder Templar lifted his sword and used the butt of the hilt as a club, ramming it against Flora's breast with a dull thump. Taken by surprise, she stumbled backwards in a cacophony of clattering metal; pots and pans tumbling to the flagstones in disarray. The air struck from her lungs, Flora lost her balance and felt onto her rear; grazing her palms on the uneven stone as she sprawled onto her back.

While she mouthed for air like a landed fish, the Templar reversed his sword and – after a wistful moment of indecision – slid it back into its sheath.

"That's what you deserve for interrupting us with your blasphemy, heretic," he hissed down at her, utterly without pity. "Thank the Maker that I've shown mercy."

It did not feel like mercy. Flora lay motionless on the flagstones, her fingers curled against her grazed palms; heart racing at three times its usual pace in her chest. She heard the metallic thud of their boots striking the ground – growing louder, her gut clenched – and then fading into the distance as they departed.

_**They're leaving. Have you learned your lesson?** _

Flora sat upright, wincing as her chest gave a throb of protest. It hurt to inhale a full lungful of air and yet she made herself do it; shallow breaths were keeping her light-headed. She felt oddly tearful, but managed to prevent the hot prickle of dampness actually breaking free from her eyelashes.

_I had to say something,_ she thought miserably, wiping the mud from her palms.  _I couldn't keep quiet. They were saying cruel things that weren't true._

_**Then the best way to go about it would have been to tell Duncan later. Let him deal with it.** _

_Oh. Would that have been better?_

_**Better than a mage confronting two of these foolish creatures they call 'Templar'? Yes, child.** _

Flora sniffed, wiping her nose on her sleeve. Clambering upright with a grunt of effort – she still felt like a fish plucked unexpectedly from the deep – she looked about her for the tray. It lay where she had dropped it a short distance away; retrieving it, she began the arduous task of collecting the pots and pans.

It hurt to reach down and retrieve the muddied utensils; the air still half-knocked from her lungs. Flora shuffled from one to the other, still fighting to keep the tears from slithering down her cheeks.

_Don't cry. Don't cry! You're from the north: don't be such a jellyfish._

"Here."

She startled, glancing upwards. An elf, clad in the dark green and gold of some noble's retinue, was offering her a two-handled cooking pot.

"Thank you," Flora mumbled, offering the tray for them to deposit the pot. The elf did so, turned as if to leave, and then hesitated.

"It – it's not often you see that," he offered, darting a swift look at her from the corner of his eye. "Surprised me, you did."

"Eh?"

"A pretty girl standing up for those viewed as lesser," he observed archly, watching her adjust her grip on the tray. "I've not come to expect much from humans."

"Oh," the glum Flora replied, distracted by the realisation that she would need to go and wash the pots again. "Well, I'm a mage. They… they don't like me either."

Wordlessly, the elf watched her shuffle off. She made for an incongruous figure in the shadow, bulky and off-balance by many layers of clothing and the woollen hat disguising the distinct crimson hair. The tray was held precariously before her, bearing the load of pots and pans and rattling with each step.

* * *

 

Some time later, and several crumbling terraces to the east, Duncan was anticipating the end of yet another inimitable meeting. Although the lull in Darkspawn activity had allowed those encamped at Ostagar some respite – a chance to repair damaged walls and train inexperienced troops – it also meant that action was replaced with discussion; the strategy table temporarily took the place of the battlefield. There was only so much theorising and conjecture that the Rivaini could sit through before he grew frustrated. Duncan was only too aware that an enemy such as the Darkspawn fought without logic or reason; it was futile to predict their movements on the field.

_The horde is as unpredictable as the girl's beloved Waking Sea,_ he thought fondly to himself, rising to his feet as the disgruntled nobles made ready to leave.  _She talks about that stretch of water as though it were a family member._

The bann's son made his way from the tent, grumbling loudly about how he had not travelled two hundred miles to Ostagar in order to fight  _training dummies._ The complaints soon increased in pitch as he stepped out into the drizzle of a Fereldan autumnal evening. His retainers moved after him in a clump of dark green and gold, save for one slender figure who remained in the shadowed tent.

Duncan did not notice the elf at first, focused on the latter section of a missive from the west. He moved the letter into the candlelight, then glanced up to see the servant hovering in the wake of the others.

"Do you want me to recruit you into the Wardens?" the commander offered, wryly. "A lifetime with the Grey might be easier than servitude to that foolish whip of a lad."

The elf half-smiled, eyes flickering in appreciation of the Rivaini's humour.

"My lord, I witnessed something earlier which I believe you ought to know."

"I'm the furthest thing from a  _lord_ here," replied Duncan mildly, letting the quill rest on the parchment. "What ought I know?"

The servant shot him a look from the tail of his eye; privy to the rumours of the camp in a way that knights and nobles were not.

"The slight girl with the gods-crafted face – she's… yours, yes?"

There was only one within the fortress who fit such a description. The intimation was deliberately vague: leaving Duncan to interpret it how he wished.

_She's one of your Wardens._

_She's yours._

He gave no verbal reply but gave a slight nod. The mention of Flora had him on immediate alert; his gaze sharpening like a hawk sighting prey.

"She had a nasty run-in with a pair of Templars earlier," the elf said, glancing over his shoulder to check that his absence in the retinue had not been missed. "I saw it all."

Duncan felt his jaw stiffen, the blood in his veins heating as though set alight by some witch's curse. The quill in his grip splintered as his fingers clenched; forming an inadvertent fist.

"Tell me."

* * *

 

Later that evening, Flora was shuffling back across a lower terrace towards the Warden encampment. She kept close to the crumbling fortress wall, in an attempt to gain some shelter from the biting easterly wind. The sound that the swirling air made as it circled Ostagar's towers and decrepit colonnades was eerie; and brought to mind the lamenting howl of some Wilder spirit. Faceless statues peered down at her from ivy-covered recesses in walls above; their blind eyes staring out into the drizzle.

Flora did not want to dwell on the possibility of ghosts lurking in the nearby shadows. She was highly uncertain of her shield's durability in the face of the paranormal, and had no wish to put it to the test. Her evening had not begun well – after her encounter with the Templars, she had returned to the spring and spent another candle-length washing the newly muddied pots and pans. By the time that she had returned them to the kitchens, the cook on duty was so irate by Flora's lateness that she was sent to the back of the dinner-queue. Flora did not attempt to explain her lateness, since she was a northerner and not in the habit of giving excuses. By the time that she had reached the cauldrons, there was only a thin residue of watery gruel left.

Hungry, gloomy and with a lingering dull ache in her chest – she did not want to take off her six layers to heal the bruises left by the Templar's sword-hilt – Flora made her way towards the Warden camp. Her fingers were curled into the woollen sleeves of her jumper to protect them from the biting cold.

"Flora?"

Her name filtered through the shadows so unexpectedly that Flora squeaked, anticipating the manifestation of some ghostly figure before her. Fortunately, a very  _corporeal_ figure stepped out from the shadows; stocky and bearded, and clad in layers such as herself. Flora recognised him as one of Duncan's chief aides, who carried messages and sent out requests on behalf of their commander.

"I'm under instruction to bring you to the boss," he said, biting back his complaint that he'd been looking for her for almost an hour. "Can you come now?"

Flora blinked, astonished. She did not usually need a  _summons_  to come to Duncan's tent – she would happily make her way there on her own accord. She wondered, fleetingly, if she were in trouble; and ran through her actions over the past few days.

_I've done all my assigned duties. I haven't been late for anything – except returning the pots and pans. Hmm!_

_**Hm, indeed.** _

A moment later the aide let out an impatient rumble through his beard, and Flora hastily confirmed that she  _could_ indeed come now.

She followed the aide as he wove his way expertly through the tents, wagons, cages and other detritus of a military camp. He was swift in stride despite his rotund frame, keen to complete this last duty of the day before retiring to the campfire. The drizzle was fine and yet remarkably adept at soaking one to the skin; blown sideways by the turbulent air.

He knew the layout of the fortress better than she, and they took a short cut that saved almost ten minutes of circular wandering. Before long, they had reached the terrace guarded by twin silver griffin banners; the tents clustering together like mushrooms in a damp tangle of shadow. The tents belonging to the senior wardens were situated in a row near the rear of the camp, and Duncan's was at the far end. It was distinguishable from the others only by its height – it was taller, and several feet wider than its neighbours – and by the two guards posted at the entrance. Otherwise, it appeared every bit as plain and dilapidated as the others.

Light blazed from within Duncan's tent, and several figures were silhouetted within. The guards wore a carefully neutral expression as they approached; giving nothing away. Flora was gestured impatiently forward by the aide, whose face was already turning towards the campfire and an accompanying bottle of ritewine.

"Evenin'," said one of the guards as Flora approached, used to her presence. "Go on in. He's waitin' for you."

The idea of removing the soggy woollen hat – or some of the unflattering bulky layers that gave her the circumference of a ball – did not occur to Flora. She lifted the canvas entrance flap and ducked inside, grimacing at the sudden blaze of candlelight. When she regained her vision a few moments later, it took her longer still to comprehend the scene before her. Her mouth fell open and her eyes widened into huge grey circles of astonishment.

Heat pulsed inside the tent, emanating from candles scattered on every horizontal surface and a squat corner brazier that stood near a ventilation flap. The heat had a sweet, smoky edge to it; the fragrant air reminded Flora of the incense used by the Chantry, but with a richer, more complex base. It did not seem a very  _Fereldan_ smell, which perhaps was the intention of the tent's owner.

Duncan was standing near the armour stand, motionless as a jaguar lurking in the lie of a baobab tree. He was clad in clothing native to Rivain, layers of loose linen and cotton, secured with a sash of rich crimson. The earring glinted from his earlobe; the hair pulled to the back of the skull. Held loose in his hand was a wickedly curved knife, the silver engraved with unfamiliar patterns. His gaze was fixed not on Flora, but on the figures before him.

Tied back to back against the tent's central pole were two men, their naked bodies pale and sagging against the rope bonds. Flora gaped at them, recognition dawning in a sudden, astonished rush.

_It's the two Templars from earlier._

" _Qalbi,"_ said Flora's commander at last, and she wondered if his accent had somehow taken on a more Rivaini edge in the past few hours. "These are the men who treated you ill?"

From the marks on their wrists and around their waists, the Templars appeared to have been tied to the pole for several hours. Any strength to protest had long since drained from them; they sagged against their bindings and groaned.

Flora mouthed for a moment, then nodded wordlessly; her eyes moving from the two men to Duncan.

Duncan stepped forward, spinning the slender blade between his fingers with an adeptness honed through decades of use. The firelight glanced off the slender blade, drawing the stupefied attention of the nearest Templar.

"So, I heard that you insulted my Rivaini heritage," the senior Warden said, soft and menacing. "That you do not think it  _fitting_ that a foreigner lead the defence of your nation."

He circled the tent post, head held high and proud even as his keen stare bore into the cringing men.

"Well, know this:  _I_ was defending Ferelden when you two  _alhumqa_ were babes in arms.  _I_  have spent blood and the lives of good Wardens in keeping the hordes at bay underground so that they do not threaten your peaceful lives.  _I_  have fought the Darkspawn longer than almost any man alive. Who else would you put in command? Mac Tir, who does not even believe there is a threat? The  _king?"_

This last suggestion was made with a note of incredulity. Duncan let out a grunt of exasperation, his lip curling.

"The Darkspawn don't take heed of borders or nationality," he stated, the admonition emerging harsh from his throat. "We ought follow their example. If we do not stand together; we fall alone."

There was a silence in the tent; except for the cracking of a log in the iron-bellied brazier. At last, one Templar plucked up the nerve to speak.

"We've – we've said that we're sorry, Warden-Commander," he croaked, raising pitiful eyes to the stern stare of the man before him. "Can we… would you please let us go?"

Duncan stopped in his paces, visibly tautening; the muscles in his shoulders stiff beneath the linen. As he turned back towards them, his gaze passed across Flora's startled face. His own expression remained carefully neutral, though there came a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze.

"We haven't yet discussed the other matter – the true reason why you're restrained here this evening. It would be foolish to let you go before we've taken the time to consider your  _sheer fucking idiocy."_

A snarl crept into the last few words; the atmosphere prickling with sudden, raw anger. The Templars grimaced as he came close to them, the blade glinting.

"I can forgive your ignorance of my ancestry, considering you've spent half of lives in a damned monastery. But I cannot forgive your despicable behaviour towards my junior, nor do I have any desire to."

Duncan gestured towards Flora; the two men followed his sweeping fingers and flinched. She stared back at them, feeling perspiration beading across her forehead. The tension of the situation, combined with her six layers and the stifling heat from the brazier was causing her to break out in a sweat.

"So,  _qalbi_ , what do you desire as penance?" Flora's commander continued, letting the blade spin purposefully between his fingers once again. "The tongue that insulted you or the hand that dealt you the blow? You can have both if you wish. Or I could just take both of their cocks off."

A strangled squeak of terror escaped the second man's throat.

Flora blinked, just about managing to keep her composure. If she had been older – more versed in the world – or blessed with a sharper wit, she would have taken the opportunity to gloat a little, to pretend to weigh up her options. She would perhaps have paced around the men, taking full advantage in the sudden reversal of their fortunes; delivering one blistering observation after another. But she was only nineteen, and possessed neither the confidence nor the sharp wit for scathing put-downs.

"Um," she croaked, after mouthing silently for a moment. "Um, I think their tongues would make good fishing bait – but… but… I think that they ought to have a second chance."

Duncan raised a greying eyebrow at her, though he was not surprised.

"You do,  _amira?"_

Flora nodded, hastily glancing down as the two men tried to shoot her pathetic grimaces of gratitude.

"Mm. But they oughtn't do such things again. Either to me – or… or anyone else."

Duncan nodded, his unblinking stare fixed on the two men.

"Amenable to those terms,  _gentlemen?"_  he asked, far more adept at scathing tones.

They nodded frantically, sensing a reprieve.

The Warden-Commander lifted the blade, stepping close to the pole. He turned it from side to side, admiring the burnished glint of the silverite in the amber glow of the brazier. One man cringed in his bindings as the blade crept nearer.

"Apologise to her and I'll cut you free."

For a second, despite the circumstances, the Templar was visibly conflicted –  _apologise_ to a  _mage!_ The flat of the blade came to rest against his cheek, and he hastily reconsidered. Once a spluttering apology had been delivered, the blade made swift work of his bonds. The second man was freed in an equal manner.

"Don't think of asking for your armour back," the Rivaini stated bluntly, watching the two men shiver beside the entrance. "Tell the Chantry that you donated it to the Wardens' cause. Now, fuck off and never come near my mage again. Pass the message on to your brethren."

The Templars scrabbled their way free between the damp canvas flaps; the startled laughter of the guards following in their wake as they fled naked into the drizzle.

Duncan exhaled a long breath, replacing the blade atop the dresser. Flora had not moved from the spot beside the entrance; her eyes were still as round and startled as a  _halla_  caught unexpected by hunters. He crossed the tent towards her, reaching up to brush callused thumbs over her damp cheekbones.

" _Qalbi,_ are you crying?" he asked, quiet and concerned. "You're in no danger from them."

"I'm not crying," Flora whispered back, truthful and tremulous. "I'm  _sweating._ I'm wearing three jumpers."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooooow so I failed at Nanowrimo but that's why I haven't updated this story in a month - I was working on my Flo/Alistair focused Bedtime Stories instead. But now it's time to show Duncan some love <3 <3 
> 
> Anyway, no smut in this chapter since I wanted to do a bit of plot, but lots of smut in the next chapter I promise!!


	61. Bindings And Blindfolds

Duncan snorted, the corner of his mouth curving in startled amusement. She ducked her head as he lifted off the woollen cap, letting the loose fishtail braid tumble free. After several hours confined beneath the wool, most of her hair had escaped the leather tie; falling in rambunctious waves about her face. She tilted her head to one side as he caught a thick strand of crimson between finger and thumb; twisting it into a lazy spiral.

"I've missed you,  _qalbi,"_ the Rivaini murmured, letting the hair uncoil slowly from his forefinger. "Tomorrow I'll assign you to a duty that requires you to stay at my side all day."

"Ooh," Flora replied, delighted. "Yes, please."

Her voice grew muffled as Duncan pulled the first woollen jumper over her head; lifting her arms to facilitate its removal. He snorted at the second jumper nestled underneath, reaching for the hem. Flora smiled at him, her hair growing more dishevelled with each item of clothing eased over her head. At the sight of the third jumper, the Warden-Commander burst into startled laughter.

" _Amira,_ I am beginning to suspect that you might not want to be undressed tonight. You are wearing more clothing than the Empress of Orlais has in her entire wardrobe."

"Nooo," Flora protested, wriggling her arms free of the final jumper. "I  _do_  want to be undressed. It was just cold outside. But it's warm in here."

Duncan ducked his head to kiss her forehead, smiling at her earnestness. At last he could see the outline of her body; the small swells of her breasts pressing against the pair of linen tunics. He slowed his pace, deliberately lingering over the laces now that his end goal was near. Each touch became part of the foreplay, his wrist brushing against the underside of her breast, his eyes warm and appreciative as his fingers drew open the thin fabric. She had not been lying about overheating; the last tunic clung to flushed and damp skin.

"You look as though you've spent all day on the Afsaana sands," he murmured, referencing a swathe of desert in the south-western region of Rivain. "Beneath the white glare of the sun. Your constitution was not made for heat, my pale lily."

Flora gazed up at him, entranced both by the exotic image and the rich, reminiscing tone of her commander's voice. Duncan smiled back down at her, winding his finger around the final lace. With a gentle tug the tunic fell open, revealing the bare skin beneath.

His lips were forming a compliment before he had even set eyes on her breasts; but the words withered and died in his throat. The air in the tent seemed suddenly too hot – near-stifling – and the Riviani felt beads of sweat prickling across his own brow. The blood surged hot and violent in his veins, like some molten river conjured up by a maleficar.

Flora wondered why her commander was not speaking; why he had fallen so suddenly silent. He was staring at her chest as though he had never seen her breasts before, and there was a look of pure white shock writ across his face.

She looked down, following the direction of his stare, and realised instantly the cause of his consternation. Bruises had blossomed across her chest, darkest around her sternum where the sword-hilt had struck directly. The pale milk of her skin was mottled with dark blue and black; the injury seeming blasphemous beneath the delicate hollow of her unblemished throat.

"Oh," Flora breathed guiltily, recalling that she had not healed herself earlier due to the many layers of clothing. "Oh, I'll just… fix this."

It was too late. The shock was transforming into red-hot rage, irises igniting like coals at the base of a fire. Duncan's lip curled in fury; his gaze slid sideways to where the knife lay atop the dresser. A moment later he had crossed the tent in three strides, plucking up the knife in experienced fingers. He turned towards the entrance, a dark purposefulness settling across his face.

Flora, picturing her commander stalking the two helpless naked Templars through the shadows with blade in hand, gaped in stupefied indecision for the briefest of the moments. Then she stepped sideways - almost tripping over the pile of discarded jumpers – and stationed herself before the canvas flap. Her heart beat fast behind her ribs; adding to the dull ache in her chest from the wreath of bruises.

Duncan came to a halt inches before her, close enough that she could feel the pulse of angry heat from his body. Each muscle was held taut and trembling like a wild cat poised for the lunge; the knife held with deadly promise between expert fingers.

"Flora."

"Don't go!"

"I'm going to skin them both and stitch a cloak from their fucking pelts!"

_**You could stop him from leaving by using your shield.** _

_I've got another way._

Flora tilted her chin upwards, letting the light from the brazier fall across her fine-boned features. In spite of the dishevelled hair and the perspiration beading across her forehead, she knew – from experience – that her face could be as potent a deterrent as her shield, in the right circumstance. She did not know whether her looks were compensation from the Maker for her lack of brains or skill; her classmates in the Circle had certainly implied such. Yet there was no denying the effectiveness of this natural weapon.

Duncan stared fixedly down at her, lured by the bait that she had so hastily flung out. Her eyes pleaded with him; huge and pale, like the soulful gaze of a Mabari. The wide and feminine mouth was equally imploring; beguiling the man with full-lipped appeal.

"Stay," Flora breathed, tilting her cheek against the palm that rose involuntarily to cradle her face. "Stay with me. I've missed you."

The rage which had driven Duncan to snatch up the blade fought a valiant – losing – battle against the opposing forces of desire, emotion and reason. She could see the conflict writ across her commander's face, and decided to ensure the victory. Turning her face into the hand cupping her cheek, she parted her lips and let her tongue lave along the longest crease in his palm. She then took him by the wrist, moving his hand to the centre of her breast.

Duncan gazed wordlessly down at his fingers, spread across the bruise-mottled skin. The saliva that Flora had administered to his palm now seeped into the damaged flesh; taking on a gleaming, golden sheen like liquid metal. He watched the creation energy meander in delicate rivulets across her breastbone, as fascinated by magic as the Rivaini tended to be. The bruises melted away in a half-dozen heartbeats, the skin restored to unblemished creaminess. Duncan lifted his fingers, mesmerised by the faint, gilded strands that clung between his knuckles like spider-webs.

"Stay with me," Flora entreated him once again, ignoring the blade suspended in his other hand.

He reached out without taking his gaze from her face, tucking the knife into the cloak hanging beside the the entrance. Relieved, Flora smiled up at him; he did not smile back, but stared at her with hawklike intensity. The brazier crackled in the background, warm cedar-scented air flooding the tent in defiance of the autumnal damp.

Then his hands were at her breeches, gripping both pairs so that they slid down her thighs together. Flora put her hand on his shoulder for support as she stepped free one leg at a time. Duncan stayed crouching to remove her boots, then put his mouth to her leg; kissing a ragged trail up the flesh of her inner thigh.

"You've wrapped yourself up like a present," he murmured, sliding his fingers into the waistband of her smallclothes. "My sweet comb of honey."

Flora, who had never been given a present and thus had no idea if they came wrapped or not, smiled vaguely down at the top of his head. Duncan drew her smallclothes down around her thighs, then inhaled in sudden surprise. He reached out to brush a thumb over her firm, creamy mound; admiring the smoothness of the new-shaven skin.

" _Mm._ Let me guess: Alistair did this for you? I wouldn't have expected the boy to have such a steady hand."

" _I_ did it," Flora corrected him, a note of pride creeping into her tone. "I'm good with a little blade."

She did not mention that she quite  _enjoyed_  the process shaving off everything below her eyebrows; that she envisioned herself as a giant fish being de-scaled by an expert hand.

"Good girl," Duncan breathed, cupping her between the legs with a callused palm one final time to admire the silken smoothness. "Ah, you've the body of something divine,  _amira._ Let me see you."

He rose to his feet with the agility of a far younger man, letting his hands rest on her naked hips. Flora smiled up at him, wholly at ease in her nakedness; her pale eyes fixing themselves unblinking on his dark ones. Without speaking, she lifted her arms to close the foot between them in height, reaching around the back of his head to the leather band securing his hair in place. Carefully, she worked the band free; the dark strands, intermingled with grey, fell loose about his shoulders. Her fingers combed through his hair, splaying outwards as they reached the ends.

It was an oddly intimate gesture, and Duncan was reminded of a figure who had once done the same thing to him many decades previously. He strained to recall the memory –  _was it from his childhood? –_ but was not able to retrieve it from the miasma of his youth. His early years, tinged with Blight, tended to blur into one congealed mass; incapable of producing anything solid.

Flora kept methodically combing small fingers through his hair, fascinated by the glint of the gold earring against the faded richness of the dark strands. She noticed that he had closed his eyes, and took advantage of his momentary distraction to stand on her toes and brush her lips feather-light over his contemplative mouth.

The fierceness with which Duncan returned her kiss took her by surprise; his lips working hers with sudden, vehement passion. He reached down to lift her onto his waist, gripping the undersides of her thighs as he turned towards the campbed. Flora, her squeak of excitement muffled by the intensity of their continued kiss, enveloped her bare legs tight around him.

The Warden-Commander carried his naked lover to the campbed; his tongue still claiming fierce ownership of her mouth. He half-fell into a sitting position on the edge of the mattress, too preoccupied with tasting the delicious ripeness of the girl's lips. Flora settled happily on his lap, delighted to feel an emergent bulge nestled between her thighs. As they kissed, she began to grind herself against the swell in his trousers; her hips rocking as though he were already inside her.

" _Amira,"_ he breathed when their mouths finally parted; both breathless and her pink in the face. "Why does it feel as though I've drunk a cask of Dairsmuid whiskey after kissing you?"

"Dunno," she whispered back in her usual eloquent manner, letting her fingers spread possessively across the broad expanse of his shoulders. "I can't taste alcohol; my spirits turn it into water. What does Da – Dazzmud whiskey taste like?"

"Like… liquid smoke that burns the back of the throat," he replied, then laughed at the alarmed expression on her face. "Sweeting, I don't mean that  _you_ taste like whiskey. I mean that I feel…  _drunk_ after kissing you."

Flora ran her fingers through his hair once again, mesmerised by the rare sight of it loose around his shoulders. It made him appear roguelike, and several years younger; she could almost imagine the rakish young man he had once been.

"Is that a good thing?" she sought to clarify, and Duncan grinned; furthering the illusion of youth.

"It is,  _qalbi."_

He ducked his head to kiss Flora's neck, tonguing the sensitive spot behind her ear as she quivered against him. The more attention he gave her, the more she wriggled on his lap; small half-gasps of excitement escaping her throat.

"Keep squirming and you'll have me spending in my breeches like a youth," Duncan murmured in her ear, but made no effort to slow the pace of his affection. Cupping a small, high breast in one broad palm, he continued to suckle delicate kisses into her throat.

She whimpered; tilting her head so that her hair fell down her back like a crimson-hued tumble of water. As Duncan caressed the peak of her breast with a thumb, he lowered his voice and angled his mouth to Flora's ear; the words emerging slow and languid.

"In Rivain, we pierce our bodies and dye them with ink to distinguish ourselves from our Antivan neighbours."

He cradled her breast, fondling its pink tip into stiffness with an experienced thumb.

"You've such pretty little nipples,  _qalbi_ ," the Warden-Commander continued, fondly. "So  _sensitive_  to the touch. If we were back in Afsaana, I would have them pierced with gold and diamonds. Ah, what a  _sight_  that would be."

Flora squeaked, part startled and part made curious by the prospect. Duncan grinned at her – once again, she caught a glimpse of the dissolute youth he had once been. He lowered his lips to her breast, then gave her nipple a gentle, teasing bite. She pleaded in a desperate gasp for him to  _do that again._ When he obliged, Flora wriggled so enthusiastically that she almost fell off his knee.

Duncan managed to grab her just in time, clutching her to his chest like a child who had almost dropped a favoured toy. He leaned back to survey her flushed face with mock sternness, his eyes warm with affection.

"You can't seem to stay still,  _zahra,"_ he murmured, reaching down with one hand to loosen the scarlet sash belted around his waist. "We'll need to think of something  _else_  to keep you in place."

Flora inhaled unsteadily, her pulse quickening in her throat as she peered at her handsome commander from beneath her eyelashes. Still perched on his knee, she watched the expert movements of his fingers as he folded the sash over three times to create a narrow band.

"Look at me, Flora."

She did, drinking in the sight of her commander's focused stare and the determined curl of his lip for a last few moments before he tied the sash deftly over her eyes.

Deprived of her sight, Flora's other senses heightened in compensation. She could taste the rich, honeyed scent of the cedar burning on the corner brazier, the faint whisper of cool air from the ventilation slit crept across her heated skin. She could hear Duncan breathing in slow, carefully measured tones; her commander was deliberately pacing himself. The hard swell in his breeches pulsed with new urgency between her thighs.

Duncan pressed a kiss to his lover's forehead and she smiled vaguely in his direction; her cheeks pink beneath the blindfold. Gently – he did not want to disorientate her – he eased Flora down onto her back; letting her rest on the campbed. The blanket beneath her was embroidered with a Rivaini pattern; one of the few personal touches that the Warden-Commander allowed himself. He gazed down at Flora as she lay ripe and resplendent before him, her hair like some volcanic overspill across the blanket.

 _She would look delicious clad in the translucent veils of a dancer's garb,_ Duncan thought to himself, reaching beneath the bed to retrieve the corded rope.  _Breasts bared, those tender nipples glinting with gold. Perhaps that pretty pearl too. She'd like the feel of it, I'm sure._

Cupping Flora between the legs, he gave her a quick squeeze as he leaned forward to pin her arms above her head.

"My blossoming flower," he murmured in her ear, looping the rope expertly about her wrists. "Is that comfortable?”

Flora nodded frantically, her heart racing at the proximity of the older man's body as he leaned over her. He was still fully dressed, but she could feel the raw muscle of his chest through the thin linen. They both knew that she could free herself in the span of a heartbeat if she so wished, yet the thought did not cross Flora's mind. Anticipation prickled across her skin and made her fidgety against the blanket; an urgent pulse throbbing between her thighs.

Duncan drew back to survey his handiwork, feeling his cock give a twitch of appreciation. His  _qalbi_ lay Maker-naked before him, blindfolded and lips parted in anticipation; her arms bound above her head. A faint sheen of perspiration decorated the high breasts; her crimson hair sprawled in waist-length tendrils across the blanket.

It was a sight too rich and decadent for the grim surroundings of Ostagar; and the old Rivaini had to remind himself that he had not inhaled some intoxicant herb to provoke a pleasure-dream.

"I'm going to fetch the  _al-rani_ crystal," he told her, his voice thick with desire. "I want to preserve this memory forever."

Flora gave a little wriggle of assent, feeling the mattress shift as her commander rose to his feet. There followed footsteps, and she envisioned Duncan crossing the tent to the cabinet that housed his small collection of personal effects.

Duncan retrieved the small cedar box tucked discreetly on the bottom shelf; opening it with a distinctively-shaped metal pick. Nestled within was his collection of  _al-rani_ crystals; the clouded shards already holding their arcane-captured images. The Warden-Commander owned several crystals housing memories of his experiences with other women at Ostagar – the priestess lifting her Chantry robes to be penetrated from behind, one of Cailan's mistresses kneeling to take Duncan's cock in her mouth. One larger fragment of crystal held the memory of a particularly enjoyable night that the Rivaini had spent with two giggling maidservants and a pair of elven twins.

Yet more than a dozen crystals had been used to capture images of the girl before him: her naked in the bathtub, her discarding her clothing with a shy smile. He'd captured her exploring herself with her fingers, her eyes wide at sensations that still felt new. A favourite showed Flora bouncing enthusiastically away on his lap, ecstasy writ raw across her face. A closer look revealed that his cock was nestled snugly between her buttocks.

 _I've still a few crystals left,_ the Warden-Commander realised, relieved.  _I'll have to purloin some more from the Circle stores. The moment when she takes two men at once needs to be preserved from more than one angle. I might even allow Loghain to keep a souvenir, if he'd even accept an arcane artefact._

_Well, he's more than happy to bed a mage._

Retrieving one of the clear  _al-rani_ crystals, Duncan returned to the campbed, unconsciously running the tip of his tongue over his lips to moisten them.

"You are undoubtedly the most beautiful creature I've seen in five decades," he told her, sitting on the edge of the mattress and breathing on the crystal to activate it. "You're breathtaking,  _qalbi_."

_A girl like this should be in a king's bedchamber, not in some grubby tent in the ass-end of Ferelden._

_Fuck that! Cailan isn't getting his hands on her._

Flora arched her back to show off her breasts; more than happy to put herself on display for her commander. He murmured an instruction and she happily parted her thighs, revealing a core that already gleamed with arousal. Placing the  _al-rani_ crystal on the blanket, Duncan leaned forward to push a finger inside his young lover's hidden slit. He wished fervently that the crystal could capture  _sound;_ both the noise that her eager cunt made as it welcomed the intrusion, and the accompanying whine of pleasure from Flora's throat.

"Sweet girl," he breathed, bringing his finger to his mouth so he could taste her. "My little beauty. I haven't even started with you yet, and you're ready for me."

He propped the  _al-rani_ crystal near the end of the bed, adjusting it until the angle was most advantageous. The Rivaini had made the deliberate choice not to release his cock from his trousers. Although this led to some discomfort, he knew that freeing himself would inevitably lead to immediate penetration, and he wanted to make the experience last as long as possible. To distract himself, he leaned forward to take her left nipple in his mouth, tonguing the ripe pink flesh while the finger and thumb of his right hand teased the other.

Flora whimpered, hips writhing against the blanket as Duncan lazily suckled her nipple. Deprived of her sight, the caress of his heated tongue seemed to be augmented; the sensation somehow more intense than normal. In contrast to the affection delivered by his lips, his fingers pinched her right nipple hard enough to make her gasp. Caught halfway between pain and pleasure, a helpless moan slipped from her throat; new slickness coating her inner thighs.

"These are the most perfect breasts I've ever seen," Duncan murmured, returning upright as Flora trembled before him. "Who knew that these were hidden beneath those loose linen shirts and woollen jumpers?"

The Warden-Commander saw her blush beneath the blindfold, biting her lip to stop herself from squeaking in pleasure at the compliment. Smiling, he reached beneath the bed to retrieve a small silk bag, withdrawing the polished wooden oval with the metal key protruding from one end. He kept talking to disguise the sound of him winding up the clockwork pleasure-toy; his voice warm and appreciative.

"I remember touching these pretty breasts through your nightshirt the first time we kissed," he said, smiling fondly at the memory. "I could see the pink of your nipples through the linen. I swore I'd have them in my mouth before long."

If Flora had been able to speak, she would have informed him that he could have taken them in his mouth on that very first night on the riverbank; that he could have taken  _her_ if he had wished.

"Part your thighs for the crystal,  _qalbi,_ " he instructed her, keeping the wound-up toy in place with a thumb. "Show off your sweet little cunt."

To be continued -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blindfolds and bandages and al-rani crystals, oh my!


	62. Blindfolds and Bindings

The brazier in the corner of the tent hissed and spat, breathing out another waft of hot, cedar-scented air. It cast a warm amber glow across the shadowed space, its light mingling with the radiance from a dozen candles. The noise from the encampment was muffled by the heavy canvas walls; the guards posted at the entrance were under strict instructions to allow no one access save for the other two most senior persons in the camp – Loghain and Cailan.

The Warden-Commander, perched on the edge of the campbed, took a disbelieving pause to consider his fortunes. The girl was sprawled on the mattress before him, resplendent in her ripened nakedness, her hair in wanton disarray across the blanket. Her arms were bound above her head and fixed to the head of the campbed, thrusting her high, teardrop-shaped breasts forwards. Her skin was goats' milk - creamy, rich and silk-smooth – unblemished by mark or scar. A blindfold, crafted from Duncan's crimson sash, covered her eyes; drawing more attention to her full and trembling mouth.

"Open those thighs,  _qalbi_ ," the Rivaini coaxed in honeyed tones; the  _al-rani_ crystal in one hand and the wound-up toy in the other. "Show me that sweet little cunt, like you did on our second night together."

The obliging Flora parted her thighs, showing off her plump cream-coloured outer folds and a teasing glimpse of pink nestled within. Duncan felt his mouth go instantly dry, then begin to water. He had to resist the urge to toss the crystal inside and mount her there and then; his cock making urgent demands within his breeches.

_Restraint, you old dog. You're not an overeager youth rutting girls behind their parents' houses anymore._

Duncan let the  _al-rani_ crystal focus between Flora's thighs, ensuring that it captured the slick gleam of her arousal. He wondered idly what the political ramifications of making a dozen lewd recordings of a teyrn's daughter were – it was one thing capturing a young mage collared and kneeling with a cock in her mouth; another thing altogether if the girl in question was the (presumably) bastard offspring of Ferelden's leading family.

_No one will get their hands on them. They're all safely kept here; except the one she made for Mac Tir showing her pleasuring herself. And he's not letting that treat slip away from him._

Duncan nudged the smooth tip of the wound-up toy between the apex of her folds, letting it rest against her tiny pearl. Then, he released his thumb from the tightened key; letting the curved stone vibrate against the sensitive peak.

A cry escaped Flora's throat at the sudden intensity of the sensation; her hips bucking up from the mattress. There was a savage edge to the Rivaini's grin as he pressed her back down; keeping the humming toy nestled in place. The more she wriggled, the more firmly he held her down; rolling the toy in teasing circles around her pearl. Before long the little bud was swollen and pulsing visibly, protruding from the surrounding folds. Duncan let the  _al-rani_ crystal focus on the engorged flesh, overcome with irrational fondness.

_This is where my little qalbi gets her sexual pleasures from. I taught her how to stroke it, and gave her instructions to practice whenever she was alone._

_This sweet fold of flesh is sacred._

Duncan brought her to the very peak of pleasure over and over; rewinding the toy and nudging it between her folds until she begged for release. Eventually he could stomach no more teasing; she was trembling and almost tearful before him, her core throbbing with frustration.

Tossing the toy aside the Rivaini half-lunged between Flora's thighs, working her with his lips with a frenzied passion. His tongue sought out her overstimulated pearl and lavished it with affection, using his fingers to spread her apart. She mouthed incoherently, no longer capable of summoning sound; wrapping her legs around his shoulders.

"Come for your  _dīda,"_ Duncan urged her, the words muffled against the heat of her slick folds. "Let me hear you."

He tongued the sensitive bud of Flora's clitoris once more and felt her convulse beneath him, her hips jerking upwards as her body was consumed by this most primordial of pleasures. A wail of raw ecstasy tore through the canvas, easily audible along the row of senior warden tents. Duncan's officers abandoned all intention to visit their commander with any queries that night; now aware that the little redhead with the divine body was present in his tent. They all knew the sounds of her climaxes by heart by now; though they found it hard to reconcile such wanton moans with the shy, solemn-faced girl they saw during the day. Still, they were more than grateful for the chance to seek some self-pleasure to the muffled pants and gasps of a beautiful girl. Duncan was well aware of their secret ministrations; indeed, he was rather amused by them. He knew about the furtive cut made in the canvas to allow curious eyes access; and had only smiled when a second cut appeared near the first. He did not begrudge his men, many of whom had served at his side for years, a brief respite from the incessant grimness of life at Ostagar. Flora, for her part, had never known privacy in her nineteen years of life.

While at least two of his senior officers in nearby tents stroked themselves to Flora's unashamedly loud orgasmic cries, the Warden-Commander was fully focused on drinking as much of the resultant sweetness from between her folds as possible. He devoured the rush of his  _qalbi's_  arousal, delving his tongue inside to claim as much of her arousal as possible.

Flora lay senseless on the bad, pink-faced and perspiring; trying visibly to catch her breath as her lover feasted on her tender cunt. At last, satisfied that he had cleaned her throughly, she felt him draw back with a grunt. Her leg was lifted, her toes suckled on until she whimpered like an abandoned pup.

"Good girl," Duncan told her tenderly, lowering her foot to the mattress. "By the Fade, what a feast you are,  _amira._ I could indulge in you all day."

Flora curved the corner of her mouth weakly at him, still replete in post-orgasmic bliss. Unable to resist, the Warden-Commander leaned forwards and pressed his lips to hers. There was no part of her body that his lips had not worshipped; in recent weeks, she too had explored the most intimate parts of her commander with an adoring tongue. They kissed like decade-long lovers, lazy and decadent; their mouths working in tender harmony.

At last Duncan propped himself up on his elbows and gazed down at Flora; flushed, sweaty and thoroughly dishevelled. Overcome with a sudden surge of affection, he reached up with a hand to slide the blindfold over her forehead, smiling as she blinked dazedly up at him.

"I just had to see your beautiful face properly,  _qalbi_ ," Duncan explained, his voice low and warm. "You've the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen. Like rainwater."

Flora, who was used to describing her own light grey irises as the colour 'of nothing', listened in enthralment to this far more poetic description.

"In Rivain," he continued, leaning forward to nuzzle his face against her ear. "Water means  _life._ It is our most precious resource. Just as you are precious to me,  _zahra."_

It was the closest that Duncan had come to expressing the secret longing of his heart. He almost did not want to look at her face, in case those soulful sloe-shaped eyes had constricted in alarm or regret.

_Coward. Look at her._

Flora was gazing thoughtfully up at him, her pupils huge and dark; the corners of the full lips slowly turning upwards.

"I hoped you would say that," she breathed, her fingers curling absentmindedly above her bound wrists. "That makes me happy."

"It does, little one?"

"Mm."

Duncan kissed her again, feeling a rare and wonderful swell somewhere deep in his chest. Then, before his tongue could betray him any further, he slid the blindfold back down over her smiling face; leaning forward to breathe into her ear.

"I have some other surprises planned for you,  _zahra."_

He retrieved the  _al-rani_ crystal from where it had slipped beneath a fold of blanket, dislodged from its place during their embrace. Positioning the crystal so that it was focused on Flora's naked, prostrate body, he then reached for something else hidden under the bed. This next 'surprise' had been crafted by Duncan's own hand; inspired by various sexual liaisons from his youth. Unbeknownst to his fellow officers, the small wooden objects that their commander had been whittling before the fire were not idle tokens; but purposeful creations.

Duncan lifted the finished piece towards the brazier, admiring the glint of the bronze in the firelight. He then turned towards his  _qalbi,_ leaning down to coax each nipple to hardness in preparation.

 _Sweet creature, they're already stiff,_ he thought fondly to himself, suckling tenderly on one rigid pink peak as Flora whimpered.  _She's a good girl._

The Warden-Commander allowed himself a few more minutes to savour her pert little breasts, each one round and ripe as a plump peach. He had fantasised about his new recruit's assets long before their first kiss; feeling a sting of a accompanying guilt each time he surreptitiously admired the swells of flesh pressing against her linen shirts.

At last Duncan reluctantly removed his lips from her nipples, having suckled each one until it was sensitive and swollen. He then guided the first polished wooden peg into place, positioning it so that it held her nipple in a teasing pinch. Ignoring Flora's squeak of surprise, he then lifted the second peg – attached to the first by a slender bronze chain – and tucked her other nipple firmly inside its grip. He then leaned back to survey his work, plucking up the  _al-rani_ crystal and focusing on his  _qalbi's_ neatly clamped breasts. The combination of the bronze chain, creamy skin and decadent locks of crimson hair was visually intoxicating.

"I know you love it when Mac Tir pinches those pretty nipples of yours," he murmured, making sure to capture Flora's expression as surprise dissolved into sheer bliss. "How do you like this, Flora?"

"I – I…" she whispered, arching her hips up from the mattress. "It feels so good. Can… can I keep it on!"

"Of course, sweeting," Duncan promised in constricted tones, aware that he would soon be spending in his breeches like an adolescent if he did not sheath himself soon. There were several pleasure-toys that he had not yet had a chance to use on her – including the leather collar that she had shyly expressed an interest in wearing – but he reasoned that they could wait for another night.

He heard Flora give a squeak of excitement as she heard him unbutton his trousers, noticing fondly that she was parting her thighs in wanton preparation. She was still blindfolded, her hands bound above her head and her nipples gripped in the chained clamps; yet despite these constraints, there was a strange power in her ripe sexuality, that the deliberate revealing of her wet little cunt was akin to casting some enthralment on the helpless man before her.

Duncan had mounted her in seconds, sheathing all nine inches in a single, smooth movement. She gasped and he groaned as their bodies became one; their limbs tangling together as he ground himself against her pelvis. There was no time for foreplay - she was on the verge of climax already – and so he began to drive himself into her with wild abandon.

They fucked like a pair of unattended Mabari in heat; the joints of the campbed creaking in desperate protest. Spurred on by her bound hands and the façade of helplessness, Duncan took her far more roughly than he was wont to do. His tawny buttocks gleamed with sweat as the muscles tautened and relaxed during each vigorous pump. At one point, the lower left leg of the campbed splintered; the two continued their frantic rutting without pause, although at a slight angle.

Such frenzied activity could not be sustained for long, even when taking into account Duncan's impressive, taint-fuelled stamina. He managed to hold out until Flora had climaxed twice more beneath him – he could read her body like a book, even when the second orgasm had her quivering in stunned silence. At last, once Duncan was reasonably sure that his young lover had been satiated, he allowed himself some blessed relief. At the apex of one particularly deep thrust, he abandoned all restraint and felt the base of his cock spasm uncontrollably; a half-dozen spurts of seed launched deep within her.

Breathless, he slumped against her for several moment; a pure white nothingness in his mind and a delicious, satisfied ache in his groin. Then, conscious of his mass being nearly double that of hers, the Warden-Commander returned to a sitting position. Immediately, he leaned forward with unsteady hands to release the blindfold, and then unfasten the ropes binding her wrists.

Flora herself could have broken the ropes in a heartbeat, but she was hoping that her older lover would use them again in the future – perhaps he might want to try tying her ankles to the campbed next time. She beamed dazedly at him, not quite ready to open her eyes fully to the warm amber glow of the brazier.

" _Qalbi,"_ he murmured, settling himself down on the campbed beside her. "Come and – ah, shit."

This was in response to the bed tilting at an alarming angle beneath him, one leg splintered from the vigour of their earlier activities.

"It feels like being in a ship at sea," observed a wide-eyed Flora, involuntarily tilting in the other direction as Duncan clambered up in search of a solution. "When there's a storm."

The Warden-Commander grunted, spotting several thick tomes on military strategy that Mac Tir had given him, and which he had never bothered to open. He lifted the campbed up by one corner – Flora clutched at the cushions to stop them from tumbling to the ground – and wedged the books in place of the broken leg. Having temporarily fixed the issue, he clambered back into bed and drew Flora against his chest; impatient to have her in his arms.

"You're very strong," she observed, resting her chin on his shoulder and letting her finger trace ever-increasing circles on his clavicle. "You lifted the bed  _and_ me."

Duncan laughed, soft and amused; casting an appreciative glance down at her tousled red head. His fingers combed through the loose strands of her hair, wondering at its length and sheen.

"The  _corner_ of the bed, sweeting," he corrected, winding one crimson length around his palm. "And you weigh as much as a breath of fresh air. I'm hardly a Qunari."

"What's a kwaaa?"

At first, Duncan thought that his Rivaini-inflected pronunciation had misled her: after all, Par Vollen was their near-neighbour, and  _Qunari_ was a common word in their native tongue. Then, he realised that she had simply not heard of the term; startled once again on how narrow and inexperienced Flora's worldview was.

"They sail on the Waking Sea,  _zahra,_ or they used to," he told her, smiling inwardly at the transition from lover to teacher. "They used to raid the northern villages, until… well. Until the old teyrns of Highever put a stop to it. The Couslands."

He glanced swiftly at her face, but there was not even a flicker of recognition across her clear and lovely features. Instead, her face brightened for an entirely different reason.

"Oh! We call them the bull-men in Herring. My dad said that  _his_ dad told him that they have horns as wide as an albatross' wings. So they're called the  _kwarny?"_

" _Qunari."_

"K'nurry," she repeated, trying to mimic the Rivaini intonation of the word. "I can't say it like you."

Duncan kissed her on the forehead, overcome with a sudden and irrational surge of affection. He ran a hand down the undulating curve of her body, checking that she was not cold. Her skin felt warm against his palm; the flesh ripe and firm to the touch. Flora tilted her face upwards and smiled at him, her gaze wandering over the strong jaw, the prominent nose and the dark, deep-set eyes. They remained wrapped in the embrace for some time; sharing leisurely kisses every few minutes.

When Duncan's cock twitched against his thigh, he took it as a sign that it was time to resume their activities. He glanced down at Flora - who had begun to fidget against him - and noticed that she was also gazing at his half-swollen manhood, lips parted.

" _Qalbi "_ he murmured, his voice dropping into a more familiar timbre. "Have you anything to confess to me from the past five days? Anything that would require me to put you over my knee?"

Flora let out a stifled squeak of excitement; she loved this little ritual of theirs. Without prompting, as he sat upright on the edge of the campbed, she positioned herself so that she was bent over his lap. Her bare buttocks, slightly elevated, were positioned directly beneath him; lush and inviting.

" _Lots_ of things!"

Duncan inhaled unsteadily, reaching for the  _al-rani_ crystal. Keeping the focus on the rounded, creamy mounds, he caressed each in turn; then tugged one to the side to show off the secret pinprick hidden within.

"Tell me,  _amira,"_ he instructed, rubbing the callused ball of his thumb between the cleft of her buttocks. "What have you done this week that I ought spank you for?"

Flora took a moment to think: she wanted to draw her experiences out in order to get as many spanks from Duncan's loving palm as possible.

"Alistair puts his mouth between my legs whenever you assign us to the same duty," she whispered, conspiratorially. "He says that he likes to –  _eat_ me, and that I'm delicious. He's done it three times this week."

"The boy has good tastes," murmured her commander, petting her buttocks with an affectionate hand. "And what's this I heard about you two rutting away in the corner of the tent in broad daylight?"

"The blanket slipped," Flora explained, wide eyed and innocent. "We didn't realise that we were…  _exposed._ Alistair was embarrassed after; I WASN'T."

Duncan chuckled softly, running his fingers up the inside of her thigh.

"What else,  _qalbi?_ What about your sour-faced northerner, Mac Tir?"

From the blush that immediately blossomed across Flora's cheeks, and the deep breath she took; it was clear that there was quite a bit she needed to confess.

"I've taken him in my mouth, um, four – no,  _FIVE!_ – times."

"Every day? A lucky man."

"Mm. And… and I posed for him in his tent so that his scribe could draw me. Without my clothes on."

She blushed, peeking up at him through a fall of dark red hair. Duncan quickly assumed a stern expression, though the corner of his mouth was twitching.

"A souvenir that Mac Tir will treasure forever, I'm sure," he remarked drily, stroking her swollen folds with an idle finger. "What else,  _qalbi?"_

"And I… I let him put something… something  _hard_ … back there," she breathed, solemnly. "Inside me."

"He fucked your ass with a phallus?" Duncan clarified, biting back the urge to laugh. "The poor sod must be desperate. Anything more you need to tell me?"

He was about to raise his hand in preparation for the first spank, when – to his surprise – she gave a shy little nod.

 _It had better not be Cailan,_ the old Warden thought vehemently to himself.  _He's too callous for my little qalbi. Even Loghain cares for her in his own odd way._

"Me and a girl showed each other our breasts in the wash-tent," Flora confessed, wide-eyed. "I let her feel mine, and I felt hers. We were going to try kissing, but then she had to leave."

Duncan felt his cock spring up with a vigour that he had not experienced in thirty years. He almost spent his seed there and then; his heart hammering audibly against his ribcage.

"Who… who was she,  _zahra?"_ he asked, trying to keep his voice nonchalant while thinking wildly  _I'll tear this Maker-damned camp apart to find her. My qalbi wants to broaden her sexual horizons, and this girl could be perfect._

"Dunno," she replied vaguely, and Duncan gnashed his teeth in frustration. "I think she's a maidservant for one of the rich men. She has yellow hair."

 _A blonde maid belonging to one of the nobles,_ he thought to himself, storing the information away for future reference.  _I'll have identified her by nightfall tomorrow._

"Would you like me to find her for you, little one?" he asked gently, cupping her buttock. "Bring her here, where you can have some quiet time to… _get to know_  each other?"

_And explore each other. It's been months since I've seen two feminine bodies writhing in ecstasy. The sweet music made by two soft cunts grinding together is unlike anything else in the world._

"Yes please!" Flora's face brightened, then fell with almost comedic rapidity. "But… I wouldn't know what to do in bed with a girl. I don't think she does, either."

"I'll guide you both," Duncan replied, trying to keep his voice steady. "Don't worry,  _qalbi._ I know you've wanted to try this for a while."

"Thank you," she breathed, tremulous and grateful. He wanted to reply with a similar sentiment, but managed to restrain himself.

"Now, I think it's time for your punishment," the Warden-Commander continued, returning his attention to the pert buttocks before him. "By my count, you deserve twelve- "

"Oh! And I rub Alistair with my hand each morning," Flora added, hastily. "To give him a good start to the day. I rub him until he leaks on my fingers."

" _Seventeen_ strokes," Duncan amended sternly, squeezing the curve of her rump before raising his palm. "Your little ass is going to be as pink as a grapefruit,  _qalbi."_

She let out an inadvertent squeak of muffled excitement, squirming on his lap.

" _Pleeeeeease."_

Meanwhile, Loghain Mac Tir was heading down the row of tents belonging to the senior warden, the customary thunderous expression writ across his face. His scowl was not due to the unpleasant chill of the rain– he was a northerner, after all – but more a result of his surroundings. The disdain shown by the general towards the Wardens was mutual, and he was aware of several hostile stares from behind twitching tent-flaps. The disarray of the Warden camp never failed to irritate Mac Tir, who organised his own army barracks in meticulous rows. The haphazard scattering of campfiresp, the careless abandonment of bottles and the erratic clusters of tents all contributed to a vague sense of anarchy that put the meticulous general's teeth on edge.

Still, his infuriating son-in-law had tasked him with delivering a pile of haphazardly-devised battle plans that deserved to be thrown straight into the nearby brazier. Ironically, the only time that the general and the Warden-Commander agreed on anything was Cailan's enthusiastic ineptitude.

As he approached the Rivaini's tent, distinguishable from the others only by its increased size. There was one guard at the entrance, the second conspicuously absent. The armoured man stiffened as Loghain approached, delivering a cautious nod.

"General Mac Tir. What brings you here so late?"

"A message from Andraste Herself," replied Loghain, irritably. "I was visited by the Maker's Bride while eating dinner, and she delivered me a secret intended for the Rivaini's ears only. Now, move."

The guard went pink, shifting from foot to foot in the mud.

"The Commander is busy at the moment," he began, stammering over the words. "He's… writing… reports."

At that moment, the unmistakable sound of a palm slapping against flesh echoed through the canvas wall of the tent. It was followed by a girl's yelp of startled pleasure, and a man's rumble of approval. Moments later, the sound of yet another spank rang out.

"Do you like that,  _zahra?_ Mm, you've the perkiest ass."

"Again,  _dīda! Please."_

Just then, the second guard came stumbling around the tent, stuffing his deflated cock back into his trousers.

"Your turn," he began, not having spotted a scowling Loghain lurking in the shadows. "She's in good voice tonight. You lucky sod, I reckon the boss might fuck that pretty ass once he's done finished spankin' it. Can't keep his hands off it… oh. Evenin', general. Duncan is busy."

"So I hear," Loghain replied sardonically, hearing another distinctive Flora-squeak from inside the tent. "Still, you don't have the authority to bar my entry; so fuck off."

The two guards stepped hastily to the side in silent concordance. Loghain, curling a contemptuous lip at the swiftness of their yielding, strode between them and shoved the canvas entrance flap to one side.

The inside of the tent was illuminated in a soft and sultry amber glow; the brazier in one corner emitting soft waves of heat and light. Clothing was strewn across the rush matting – a pair of smallclothes hung from the bedpost like a trophy – and the burning cedarwood could not hide the scent of sweat and lovemaking. The Warden-Commander, naked save for a Rivaini tunic tied hastily around his waist, was standing near the dresser with his back to the entrance. He was holding an item that Loghain could only partially glimpse – something dark, with soft, wide strips of leather hanging from one end.

The general's eyes spared only a quick glance for Duncan, his gaze drawn swiftly to the figure on the bed. Bryce Cousland's unwitting daughter sprawled languidly on her belly; the decadent crimson hair flowing in a volcanic stream down her back. Flora was Maker-naked, her pert buttocks facing him and her legs bent idly in the air, crossed at the ankle. As he entered, she peered over her shoulder and smiled at him; lowering her legs so that his view of her rounded buttocks was unimpeded. Next to her on the blankets lay the rope, the blindfold, and a vial of oil.

"A dark cloud has suddenly entered my private quarters," Duncan stated drily, without turning around. "What do you want, Mac Tir?"

"I've come to drop off Cailan's latest set of battle plans," Loghain retorted, the erection pulsing painfully in his breeches. Flora was peering at him from beneath her eyelashes, and he summoned the memory of her kneeling before him that morning. "You might need to stay up all night reading through them. I'll take the girl off your hands."

"Why don't you drop them off into the brazier?" the Warden-Commander suggested, sarcastic as ever. "And I'll keep my recruit, if you don't mind. We're having a…  _romantic evening in."_

Duncan managed to say this with a straight face, watching Loghain's forehead furrow itself into deeper crevasses than usual.

"Looks more like you've been debauching her all evening to me," Mac Tir remarked, eyeing the wind-up toy and the nipple-clamps.

The Rivaini was able to retort with something dry and dismissive, when a sudden idea struck him. He leaned against the dresser, rolling the flogger idly from side to side.

"Speaking of  _debauchery_ , my  _qalbi_ is keen to try two cocks at once. My first choice would be the lad, but Alistair still too inexperienced to give her the thrill she deserves," he stated, watching Flora turn huge, curious grey eyes on him. "We need a man who won't be – ah –  _intimated_ by my prowess."

Loghain let out the expected derisive snort, though both his mind and heart were racing through the possible meanings of Duncan's offer.

"You want us – to bed her together?" he asked, fighting to keep his voice even. "You and I? We'd kill each other."

Duncan laughed, his dark eyes gleaming like hot coals as he fingered the soft lengths of the leather.

"I never had you down as a man afraid of competition," he remarked, amused. "Are you that afraid of being shown up?"

Loghain smiled, but there was no humour in it. Instead, he kept his own stare fixed on the Warden-Commander like a hound sighting its prey through the long grass.

"The possibility didn't even occur to me," he replied, drily. "I've never left you unsatisfied, have I, lass?"

This was directed at Flora, who replied with a vague smile and a shake of the head. She could not follow the rapid verbal sparring of their conversation; and thus let it wash over her like a gentle tide.

"You could take her from behind," Duncan said after a deliberate pause, laying out his winning hand. "While I have her in the more…  _conventional_ way."

Loghain paused, not quite sure if he had heard the Rivaini correctly. He glanced sideways at Flora; her blush and shy lip-bite of excitement convinced him that he had not misheard. Making a supreme effort to keep his words steady, he sought to clarify Duncan's offer.

"I could- "

"Own her ass, at least for a night," Duncan confirmed, the corners of his mouth twitching. "Isn't that what you've been wanting for weeks?"

The tantalising prohibition of Flora's ass been the single most frustrating issue in Loghain's life for the past three weeks; vastly surmounting any annoyance he had felt over his son-in-law's rashness. He had claimed it in countless other ways – with fingers, tongue and a wooden phallus from Antiva – yet not in the only way that mattered to him. On one occasion, she had permitted the old northerner to push the head of his shaft inside her neat little pinprick. This brief and incomplete encounter had given Loghain the most potent climax he'd experienced in decades.

Flora caught his eye, her cheek resting on her forearm and her hair spilling forth in decadent oxblood waves. When she saw that he was looking back at her she smiled; stretching languidly against the blanket.

"You could have a preview now, if you wish," Duncan finished, watching the general's throat as he swallowed audibly. "A few minutes, to do as you please."

Flora propped herself on her elbow and peered over her shoulder, tucking her hair behind her ear. A moment later she had located the vial of oil, half-hidden in a fold of blanket. Solemnly, she then offered the small glass bottle to Loghain; her grave and lovely face wreathed with earnestness.

"I've wanted this for ages, too," she whispered, grey eyes fixed on his face. "I  _need_ it so badly."

Loghain needed no further persuading: his mind had been made up from the moment that Flora's ass had been placed on the negotiation table. With a muffled curse, he discarded Cailan's battle plans and began to fumble with the various clips and fixings of his armour. Duncan put down the leather flogger and retrieved another object from the dresser: a slender hourglass cased in wood, filled with a finely milled white sand.

"Don't you dare start it until I've got this shit off," Loghain snarled, fumbling with the straps of his greaves. "I won't be cheated."

Flora, who was trying not to giggle at seeing the stoic general caught in frenzied activity, shifted herself back onto her belly in preparation. She slid a cushion beneath her, before propping herself up on her elbows and peering over her shoulder. About to offer him her lips if he needed any assistance growing hard, it soon became obvious that he was already well-prepared. Flora gazed at the thick and veined shaft jutting forth from a nest of faded curls, and felt her mouth go dry with anticipation.

Almost snatching up the vial in his impatience, the general tipped out some oil onto his palm and slicked it along the length of his cock.

"Don't hurt her," Duncan warned, subtly adjusting the position of the  _al-rani_ crystal to better capture the penetration of his  _qalbi's_ buttocks. "You'll have never tried to get into something so tight before. Take your time."

Loghain was already kneeling between Flora's thighs; spreading her buttocks apart with impatient palms. He dribbled the oil across her pinprick and massaged it in with a thumb, admiring the neatness of the tiny hole. It seemed impossible that it should admit something as girthy as his cock, yet the general had always been a man who relished a challenge.

He pressed his cockhead against the little pinprick, nudging and rolling until he had worked it inside. Flora whimpered, peering over her shoulder as best she could to watch him kneeling over her. There was a look of utter concentration on the general's face, mingled with a raw edge of lust that curled his lip and beaded sweat on his brow.

"It feels so good," she breathed in encouragement, pushing her hips back reflexively. "Please, don't stop."

"Don't rush him,  _amira,"_ Duncan murmured from his position by the dresser, amused by the need to also warn  _her_ not to go too quickly. "I know you're excited, but you need to pace yourself."

Once Loghain had worked the head of his cock inside, he spent a moment admiring how close she clung to him.

"You're fucking tight, lass," he told her, gritting his teeth to restrain himself from shoving his way in. "Perfect."

Flora gasped, turning her cheek against the pillow as she felt the old northerner start the laborious process of inching his way within her. Despite the liberal application of oil, there was no easy way of fitting his broad, thickly veined length inside such a constricted space. Then she felt a callused thumb nestling between her folds, seeking out her tender clitoris before settling into a gentle, circling rhythm.

"Oh –  _oh,"_ she whimpered, her lips parting against the blanket. "Mm,  _yes."_

"That's it, lassie," the general muttered, still mostly focused with working his cock inside her. Four inches of his shaft were nestled neatly between her buttocks; another four impatiently waited their turn. "Fuck, you've a soft little cunt. Shaved it since this morning, I see."

Flora, in her haste to confess to Duncan that his rival had used a phallus to penetrate her in the rear, had forgotten to tell him that she'd spent a half-hour perched on Loghain's knee while he sat at his desk. He had fondled the slick folds of her cleft with one hand, while briskly processing requisition forms with the other.

"It feels so good," she begged him, much in the same way as she had done that morning.  _"Please."_

The general took advantage of Flora's distraction to sheath himself to the hilt, his sac coming to rest against her rear. In partial disbelief that this moment had finally arrived, he used both hands to part her buttocks; staring at the root of his cock nestled within the girl's most intimate place. Both Flora and Loghain's vastly disparate faces wore identical expressions of sheer relief: this moment had been weeks in the making.

"I've dreamed of this," Flora whispered, savouring the fullness of the northerner's cock between her buttocks, "I've  _touched_ myself to this. Please –  _please._ I need it SO badly."

It had taken all of Loghain's self-restraint not to climax the moment that he had sheathed himself within her. He had needed to close his eyes and envision the least appealing and sexual sight he could think of – his infuriating son-in-law's enthusiastic-Mabari face.

Flora's mouth was already watering at the prospect of Loghain's veined shaft moving within her; her inner thighs soaked with her own dripping arousal. The first stroke – a partial withdrawal and then a slow, deep thrust – felt so exquisite that she let out a helpless sob.

Duncan watched, half-stroking his painfully erect cock to soothe it as the lovers on the bed indulged in this most illicit,  _delicious_  act of sex. The Chantry murmured disapproval on women who allowed men to penetrate their buttocks; yet there was no shame on either party's face, only sheer and naked ecstasy. Loghain appeared a decade younger as he pumped away inside Duncan's  _qalbi's_ tight little ass; she appeared on the verge of a screaming climax after only a half-dozen thrusts.

The Rivaini waited until the pair had settled into a satisfactory rhythm, before interjecting with a cough.

"Time's up," he said, gesturing to the hourglass – which had actually run empty several minutes beforehand. "You've had your preview."

"No!

" _Yes."_

"Shit."

An enraged Loghain ground his teeth; if it had not been Flora giving a reluctant wriggle of compliance – she was loyal to her primary lover, after all – he would have continued defiantly thrusting away. With extreme reluctance he worked himself free, withdrawing from her with a low grunt of frustration.

"For the love of the Maker, man – you've a sadistic side to you," the general complained, retrieving the various parts of his armour as his cock rapidly deflated.

Duncan grinned in a way that did not deny Mac Tir's accusation, sitting down leisurely on the edge of the campbed and lifting an arm. Flora, sweaty and dishevelled, obediently scrambled along the rumpled blankets; nestling herself into his side as he embraced her.

"Don't pout,  _qalbi,"_ the Warden-Commander murmured fondly, ignoring the scowling general as he drew a strand of hair away from her damp, finely hewn cheek. "Soon you'll be taking both of us at once."

He nuzzled his face against the grumpy Flora's neck and after a moment she giggled, unable to stay cross with her Rivaini lover for long. As Loghain left the tent with a face like thunder, he glanced over his shoulder just in time to see the little redhead clambering into her commander's lap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK I think this was a record for number of kinks included: blindfolds, bondage, recording, sex toys, nipple clamps, voyeurism, spanking, discussion of threesomes, anal, mention of floggers, orgasm denial..... ahahahaha I've outdone myself XD lol! I blame pregnancy hormones ehehehe
> 
> Also, I'll leave it to your imagination what my made-up Rivaini word 'dīda' means ;) the one that Flora keeps calling Duncan >:)


	63. The Morning After The Night Before

The next morning dawned pale and sullen, but not overly ferocious. The autumnal storm had vented much of its fury overnight before departing westwards; leaving scattered puddles and waterlogged canvas in its wake. The occupants of Ostagar, while grumbling about their damp boots and sagging tents, were secretly relieved that they had not awoken to gale-force winds, or – worse still – a powdery layer of snow. Although Firstfall was still some months away, Fereldan autumns were infamous for their lack of predictability.

The brazier in the Warden-Commander's tent had burnt down to ashes in the deepest part of the night, exhaling a soft sigh of cedar-scented air to mark its passing. The tent itself grew cool in the still shadow of pre-dawn, yet the chill hanging in the air did not disturb the occupants of the campbed. To Duncan's inward delight, Flora had not gone back to the junior warden dormitory tent, as she usually tended to do. Instead, she had fallen asleep in his arms just after the sentry-bell rang twelve, and had not yet woken. Duncan was so keen not to disturb her that he even managed to stop himself from mounting her midway through the night. Instead, he had lain chastely with Flora curled in his arms; head nestled against his shoulder and hair spread in glorious disarray across the battle-marked skin of his chest. She was wholly naked, and warm, and reassuringly  _solid;_ a talisman that warded off ill dreams and Blighted whisper.

Now, as the tent lightened in slow, monochromatic increments around them, Duncan realised that they were on borrowed time. As though roused by some intricate Orlesian timekeeping device, Flora awoke promptly each morning at dawn.

_And, as she confessed to me last night, she has a routine to adhere to. Alistair is a lucky man; getting stroked to climax by such a pretty bedmate each morning._

_Well, not today._

The Warden-Commander turned his mind to the commitments of the day ahead: drill, requisitions, the standard meeting with sour-faced Mac Tir, whom he expected to appear even more thunderous this morning. After a moment he remembered Cailan's latest creative offering; the sheet of exuberant handwriting and diagrams masquerading as a battle plan. Duncan supposed that he ought to glance over it for the sake of common courtesy, though he was reluctant to waste any time on such nonsense.

_The Darkspawn don't attack in orderly rows. They don't use formation. Your childhood game of toy soldiers won't help you against this manner of foe. They hunt as a pack, except for when they turn on one another. Sometimes they take orders from a senior; on others they move as one in a hive mind. They are utterly unpredictable._

Flora yawned against his chest and Duncan turned his attention back to her; pleased to have such a worthy distraction. The girl was still half-mired in sleep, wearied from the extensive catalogue of debauchery they had participated in for much of the night. The Warden-Commander recalled the various instruments of pleasure that he had used on her – the bindings, the blindfold, the clamps among others – and felt a surge of pride in his  _qalbi_ for greeting each new experience with wide-eyed enthusiasm.

He bowed his head to press a kiss into Flora's rumpled mass of hair, feeling her curl even more tightly against him in response. The blanket slithered down the contour of her hip as she shifted, revealing the cleft of her buttocks. Duncan noticed, to his amusement, that the ripe and rounded cheeks had indeed returned to unblemished creaminess overnight; just as she had predicted.

_They were mottled pink last night; my handprints – and the soft leather kiss of the flogger – imprinted into the skin._

_By all the spirits, I've never seen such a perfect ass. I hope Alistair realises what a lucky young man he is; experiencing pleasure for the first time with such an exquisite creature._

She had gone back to sleep, her hand curling a loose grip on his shoulder. Duncan pressed another kiss to her hair, eyes dropping to the lower half of the blanket. His morning erection was tenting the embroidered wool; accompanied by a demanding throb deep in his core.

_I hadn't woken to a stiff cock in over a decade before my qalbi bestowed her attentions on me._

Careful not to wake her, the Rivaini slid a hand between Flora's thighs and began to stroke her; using his thumb to part her folds and fondle her pearl. He kept his petting gentle, his touches delicate; coaxing forth a slow, deliberate build of arousal. Soon, Duncan felt her slickness coating his fingers; unable to resist, he slid one inside her and began a gentle pumping rhythm. A sigh escaped Flora's throat; her thighs unconsciously falling apart to welcome the penetration.

_Hopefully it'll bring to mind the shy, exploratory touches of the blond maid from the wash tent. Perhaps I could prompt a pleasurable dream for my qalbi._

Just as Duncan was about to wrangle her deftly onto his cock, Flora opened her eyes and peered up at him with an odd expression of mingled delight and distress.

"I had a dream that I was a fish," she breathed, then immediately followed this up with: "Oh, but I'm late for my first duty of the day! Oh NO!"

"Good morning to you too,  _qalbi,"_ he replied, caught somewhere between amusement and bemusement. "How was your sleep?"

"I'm  _late_ for my  _duty,"_ Flora repeated, turning pathetic eyes on him. "I need to GO."

She gave an impotent wriggle. The Warden-Commander shook his head in feigned disapproval, cupping her between the legs in a warm, callused palm.

"I'm assigning you your duties for today, remember?" he reminded her, squeezing his fingers gently. "And your first duty, my scarlet lily, is to come for your commander."

Flora bit back a giggle, unsure whether he was teasing her. The Rivaini's arm was wrapped tight around her, keeping her trapped against him on the campbed; she would not have been able to move even if she had wanted to. He pressed his face against her shoulder and inhaled the salt-soap scent of Flora's skin; relishing the warmth and vitality of her.

"That – that doesn't sound like a real duty," she managed to reply, voice wavering as his fingers resumed their relentless stroking. "Ooh,  _ooh."_

The unmistakeable sound of arousal rose from between her thighs; Flora gave an involuntary whimper of pleasure. His thumb circled her clitoris, sweeping over it with a featherlight touch. She arched her back against him, toes curling against the blanket as she began to tremble.

"I determine what constitutes a real duty," her commander murmured back, slipping a finger between her folds as she squeaked. "And this is a very  _important_ one. Your body is an exquisite instrument that deserves to be played regularly."

"But –  _duty- "_

Flora squirmed, but with no real intention of escaping. Knowing that she liked to be restrained, Duncan tightened his grip across her waist and continued his relentless fondling. He could feel her pearl taut and swollen beneath the callused tip of his finger, pulsing as the blood rushed to the sensitive nub in response to its stimulation. She let out another half-moan, arching her back and pushing her buttocks wantonly against him.

"Your body was sculpted by the gods themselves," the Rivaini murmured in her ear, pleasuring her mercilessly with two fingers as his other hand stole upwards. "Such a perfectly-proportioned pair of breasts. Your new friend from the wash-tent must have enjoyed feeling them."

Flora whimpered, pushing herself a little more aggressively against his stroking fingers. Duncan smiled to himself, detecting the new, ragged edge to his  _qalbi's_ moan.

"How long did you get to touch each other for,  _amira_?" he murmured into her ear, enjoying the sound of her slickness. "The wash-tent is busy; there aren't many stalls."

"We – we went to find a quiet one at the back," she whispered, pink-cheeked at the recollection. "So we wouldn't be disturbed. I think we spent about a quarter-candle together-  _ooh_."

Her voice broke as he slid a finger inside her, curving it slightly to find her most sensitive inner spot.

"Did you let her touch your pretty nipples,  _qalbi?_ " her older lover breathed, paddling her clitoris with his thumb while caressing her skilfully from within. "Mm, you've the most succulent little tits I've ever felt. Good girl."

"Yes, yes, and I squeezed hers too."

Flora's reply trailed off into a moan, the air escaping her throat in a ragged rush. She began to rock herself urgently against his hand, eyes closing tightly. Duncan half-smiled, recognising the signs of his recruit's impending climax. She had always been easy to please; her body perfectly attuned for sexual stimulation. He considered slowing the pace of his stroking to draw the experience out – and hear more about Flora's fumble with the maidservant – but ultimately decided to grant his  _qalbi_ the orgasm she was begging for.

_She and her blonde maid will be grinding their cunts together for my al-rani crystal by week's end._

_Besides, I have other business to attend to this morning._

Duncan resumed his fondling; keen hearing detecting familiar voices in muffled conversation outside. Amused, he increased the intensity of his stroking; circling his thumb in relentless circles over the slick nub of her pearl. She was squirming frantically against him now and he tightened his grip across her belly; suppressing a smile at the fact that the girl who could escape any bindings was aroused through being restrained.

"Come for me, little dove," the Rivaini coaxed, feeling her quivering in helpless anticipation. "Come on my hand."

Alistair was shown into the tent by a grinning guard just in time to make eye contact with his sister-warden as she reached her climax; naked and squirming helplessly against their senior commander. Flora saw him enter and a shy flush spread across her cheeks; utterly helpless to prevent her own orgasm. She bucked her hips wildly, breasts thrust out gleaming with perspiration; her toes curling at the intensity of the climax.

" _Dīda, dīda,"_ came as an ecstatic cry from her throat, and although the word was foreign, Alistair had a good idea what it meant.

Just as she slumped back onto the mattress, trembling and blushing; the merciless Duncan kept a possessive hand between her legs.

"One second, lad," he murmured, thumbing Flora's tender little pearl as she let out a whimper. "She'll be yours in a heartbeat. But I usually give her two in a row."

The second climax was duly delivered; as before, she was helpless in the face of her lover's decades-honed expertise. Once more, Flora came apart on the campbed before him, her fingers clutching in desperation at the blankets as yet more waves of arousal rolled through her core.

Alistair gazed down at her, a rich red flush creeping upwards from his neck; knowing that he should look away but somehow utterly transfixed by his sister-warden's climax. He could feel his cock pressing against his breeches as a myriad of emotion swirled through his gut: desire, arousal and jealousy were at the forefront.

Satisfied with a job well done, Duncan kissed his pink and perspiring lover on the forehead in avuncular manner. He was not cruel enough to deliver a passionate kiss before the boy; such a taunt was reserved for Loghain. Rising from the bed – Alistair coughed and averted his eyes from his mentor's impressive nakedness – he crossed to the dresser.

"I've some business to take care of this morning," Duncan announced briskly as he retrieved his linens; Warden-Commander once more. "Alistair, would you take Flora to the wash tent and keep an eye on her? It'll be busy at this hour, and I won't have half the camp leering. Flora, sweeting, I'll send for you later. Keep Alistair company for now."

 _Business,_ the Rivaini thought darkly to himself as Flora yawned, thinking on the two Templars.  _You think you distracted me with your pretty little body, qalbi, but it was only a temporary diversion._

_The sight of your ripe breast, mottled with blue and black where he had struck you?_

_It's been a long time since I felt rage like it._

Flora, who had only just gained enough composure to sit upright, nodded obediently. She smiled at Alistair, slightly self-conscious that he had seen her in such an intimate moment with their commander. It was not that she was  _shy,_ but she did not want her newest lover to compare the reactions that he was able to coax from her, compared with the far more experienced Duncan. She wanted to reassure her brother-warden that, one day, he too would be able to make her scream out his name into the night.

Alistair assisted her with the retrieval of her clothing, which was strewn near the doorway as though Flora had been stripped naked on entrance. He didn't know whether to watch as she hastily dressed herself; the pink still firmly etched into his cheeks. Finally he settled on watching her from the corner of his eye, feeling his mouth go dry with desire as she buttoned the linen shirt over the high, creamy breasts.

* * *

 

They took their leave shortly afterwards, emerging into the pale, insipid light of early morning. Flora, who usually rose at dawn, berated herself for her own lateness: her internal alarm suppressed by sex-satiated exhaustion. The camp was relatively peaceful; men shuffled around yawning, clutching bowls of steaming porridge or waiting patiently in line for fresh water. The muted murmur of activity was broken by the occasional chirp of a bird; a rare sound amidst the desolation of the crumbling fortress.

Alistair knew a short-cut to the wash-tent but deliberately chose a longer route, enjoying the walk alongside his yawning sister-warden. Shortly after they had left Duncan's tent, Flora had reached out hopefully towards his fingers; he happily claimed her palm with his. The two young recruits made their way hand-in-hand through the tents, weaving their way around the half-asleep residents of Ostagar.

"I don't think I've ever heard birds here before," Alistair remarked as they descended to a lower terrace. "I thought all wildlife had fled the area long ago. I think that's a finch – or possibly a lark. Someone taught me the difference between their calls once, a long time ago. I've probably got it wrong."

"Mm," said Flora vaguely, who knew nothing about birds except that seagulls stole fish and were therefore her mortal enemy. "I missed you."

He paused for a moment, grinned down at her with slight self-consciousness.

"You did, Flo?"

"Yes," she replied, squeezing his fingers companionably. "I did."

Alistair felt as though his heart no longer fit so comfortably behind his ribcage. It did not matter that she had spent the previous night in another man's bed; that only minutes earlier she had been writhing in another man's arms; in this moment this beautiful girl was all  _his,_ and she had  _missed him._ He tightened his grip on her hand, gratified when she returned the pressure. Oddly enough, he no longer cared about the peculiar looks and sideways glances that they were receiving from the other occupants of the camp.

The nearest wash tent was located near a subterranean spring on the lower eastern terrace. It was made up of a complex of sprawling, interconnected canvas structures; conduits of dwarven construction channeling water into different areas. Most of the men – naturally suspicious of washing – chose to rinse themselves off as quickly as possible in the water troughs; spurning the offer of a more prolonged soak in a round wooden tub.

As Alistair and Flora entered, Duncan's prediction was demonstrably true: the wash-tent was bustling with early visitors. Recalling their commander's instruction, Alistair kept a tight hold on Flora's hand and prepared to deliver his best glower at anyone who might look overlong at her. As it happened, the bathers were too preoccupied with their conversation to pay much heed to the pair of junior wardens.

"Don't soak yerself fully, Tauric," warmed one man, dipping a sponge into the trough of running water before dabbing gingerly at his armpits. "Washin' the protective layer of dirt off yer skin makes yer more likely to catch the lurgy!"

"I ain't no idiot, Ben! I know how you catch  _diseases_ an' all. I ain't washin' all me grime off."

Seeing that Flora was about to open her mouth to helpfully correct the two men, Alistair steered her towards the individual bath stalls at the rear of the tent. Sectioned by wooden dividers, these stalls housed circular wooden tubs large enough for one person; the tepid water filled to the brim. Each stall also contained a three legged stool meant for one's clothes, and a ball of cheap tallow soap hanging from a rope.

A bored-looking attendant showed the two young recruits to the stall at the end, mumbling something unintelligible. Alistair followed Flora along the uneven wooden planking that had been placed like stepping stones over the sodden grass; glancing in either direction to make sure that no unsavoury characters were lurking in nearby stalls.

Once they had arrived at the far stall, Flora steadied herself with a hand on the edge of the tub and began to remove her boots.

"I'll find you a towel," Alistair announced, noticing that the hook on the wooden divider was empty. "One moment, Flo."

By the time that he had returned with a folded sheet of relatively clean linen, Flora was sitting in the bathtub, her knees beneath her chin and her hair floating on the surface of the water like tendrils of crimson seaweed. She smiled up at her brother-warden as he lowered himself to the stool beside the tub, her eyes pale and thoughtful.

"Thank you."

"My pleasure," he replied, trying not to stare at her breasts. "Do you… do you want some privacy?"

Flora shot him an astonished look, shaking her head

"Eh? No. Can you help me soap? I always drop it."

She stretched out a dripping arm and Alistair obediently began to lather it up, sliding the solid white bar along the unblemished skin. Trails of foam were left in the soap's wake; several small bubbles drifted to the surface of the water.

"What do you think causes diseases?" Flora asked curiously after a moment, still thinking on the conversation they had overheard between the two men. "They think that bathing makes you ill."

Alistair lifted her hand to scrub at a grass-stain on her palm, leaning forward on the stool as he considered his answer.

"In the Chantry, they told us that the Maker causes illness," he replied eventually, reaching for Flora's other arm. "I'm not sure that I believe that exactly, but I can't think of any other explanation."

Flora tilted her head, pulling her drifting hair out of the way as he began to rub a lather across her forearm. Alistair laughed at the dubiousness of her expression, almost dropping the soap onto the grass.

"That  _face,_ Flo! What do you think causes disease then, from a healer's point of view?"

"Let me ask my spirits," she said, fingers curling against her wet palm. "They'll know."

Alistair watched her as she paused, her hair floating about her in tendrils like some water-nymph from an Alamarri myth. Eventually, Flora blinked; refocusing her attention back on him.

"Little TINY creatures," she said decisively, and this time he  _did_ drop the soap.

"Maker's Breath!  _Creatures?_ Where are they, then?"

Retrieving the soap from the grass, Alistair glanced about him as though he might see these creatures swarming the canvas wall of the tent.

"They're  _tiny,"_  Flora repeated, patiently. "Too small for us to see. But they're everywhere, my spirits say. And they cause diseases."

"Maker," Alistair said, his eyebrows lodged somewhere near his hairline. "How are we meant to defend against this… invisible foe, then? Turn around, sweetheart."

Flora shifted around within the cramped confines of the tub, ducking her head and pulling her hair forwards. He began to rub the soap across her shoulder-blades, admiring the scattering of tan freckles across the creamy flesh.

"Soap helps," she said, her voice muffled by the fall of wet hair across her face. "Soap is like… like poison to them. It kills them. Dunno how."

"Huh! I'd better do a good job of this, then."

Alistair swept his slick thumbs over her neck, admiring its graceful line. Flora tilted her head to the side, letting her hair trail free across the surface of the water once again.

"You always do a good job, Alistair," she replied, loyally. "I'm very grateful for your help."

As he placed the soap on his knee to rinse his slippery hands, she shuffled around once again in the tub; water lapping over the rim onto the grass. When he looked up, she was facing him, her dark-lashed eyes huge and hopeful. Instead of sitting with her knees drawn to her chest, she was now kneeling in the soapy water, small breasts just cresting the surface.

"Do my front?"

Alistair inhaled unsteadily, almost fumbling the soap once again. Flora didn't laugh, but continued to gaze solemnly at her brother-warden through several stray strands of wet, dark red hair. He lathered the soap up his hands, feeling his pulse throbbing with sudden urgency in his throat. Barely daring to breathe, he reached forwards and began to rub the soap across the small, ripe swells of Flora's breasts; watching the suds trickle down the cleft. She closed her eyes and let out a little sigh as he massaged the soap around her nipples; her full lips parting. Before long, each rosy peak was standing to attention, emerging stiff and inviting from the soapy lather.

"Flo," he croaked, the soap trembling as it traced the contour of her breast. "I –  _Maker- "_

She peered at him languidly from beneath her eyelashes; her gaze dropping to the erection outlined in his breeches.

They only had a few minutes before the attendant would return to change the water: there was no time to waste. Alistair lifted his dripping sister-warden bodily from the tub; while he fumbled with his breeches, she bent herself over the wooden rim, hair trailing in the water. In seconds he had freed his cock from the painful confines of his trousers, putting a hand on her naked hip and aligning himself against the soft velvet of her folds.

"Are you ready, Flo?" he breathed, voice trembling with the effort of resisting the rich and inviting softness of her cleft.  _"Please_  say you're ready- "

"For you," Flora whispered back, bracing her elbows on the edge of the bathtub.  _"Always."_

She had barely finished speaking before he plunged into her, sheathing himself to the sack in a single, smooth glide. A strangled gasp escaped her throat and she clutched the wooden rim, eyes widening at the sudden, decadent fullness between her thighs.

It was a fast and frenzied rut; a furtive coupling born of sudden, irresistible desire regardless of location and lack of privacy. Aware that they only had minutes, there was no time for kisses, for foreplay or even for different rhythms of lovemaking: Alistair's thrusts were uncoordinated and vaguely desperate. He had mounted his sister-warden like a Mabari in heat, and proceeded to fuck her with a similarly raw, single-minded need.

The frantic slap of wet flesh was somewhat muffled by the gurgling of the hastily-laid pipes and the general murmur of the wash-tent. Footsteps sounded like hoofbeats against the wooden planking; men cursed water that was either too sodding hot or too Maker-damned cold. The wash-tent attendant made their way methodically between the stalls and bathtubs, adjusting the piles and handing out fresh linens.

With sweat trickling down the corded muscle of his back, Alistair leaned forward, feeling the pressure within him swell to a peak. He slid an arm beneath Flora's stomach and pressed his face to her shoulder; part-gasped words escaping his throat.

"Flo – Flo, look at me, baby."

She turned her head obediently and he kissed her in a clumsy collision of his mouth against her own. At the same moment the young man's body and mind went simultaneously blank; Alistair felt a helpless stranger in his own body and for a moment he thought that he might actually  _die_ from the intensity of the pleasure radiating outwards from his core. He spent half-dozen spurts of seed within her, eyes squeezed shut and her body clamped against his.

Once Alistair had reclaimed some coherence of thought, he groaned against Flora's hair; aware of the need to part from her and yet incredibly reluctant to do so. Only the approaching footsteps of the attendant caused the young Warden to ease himself from her, fingers trembling as he tucked himself back into his trousers.

A pink-cheeked Flora clambered back into the tub – trying not to giggle – just as the attendant hove into view clutching a plethora of linens. Alistair, still attempting to catch his breath, shakily accepted a spare towel; nodding wordlessly as the man commented on his damp tunic.

Then the attendant was gone, continuing oblivious on his rounds. Alistair and Flora stared at one another, slightly dazed – their coupling, from start to finish, had taken place in only a few minutes. Alistair reached out an unsteady hand to push a stray lock of wet crimson hair back from Flora's cheek. In response, she raised herself up on her knees and embraced him, wrapping her arms around his neck. One of Alistair's broad palms spread across her naked back as he clutched her against his chest, not caring in the least about his now-saturated tunic.

"Flo," he said into her hair, the word emerging muffled. "I- "

He trailed off, unsure how to phrase the maelstrom of emotions swirling in his gut. Flora turned her head and kissed him sweetly on the cheek, wondering at the smoothness of his shaved chin. Duncan kept his beard manicured short and neat; Loghain bothered with a shaving-blade once every few days.

"What's our first duty?" she asked, untangling her arms from his neck and clambering to her feet; water streaming down the gentle contours of her body. "I'm with you this morning."

"How about… breaking our fast?"

"Ooh! Yes please!"


	64. The Darkspawn Ambush

Despite their best intentions, neither of Duncan's young recruits made it to breakfast. After a quick detour to the Warden tent to collect Alistair's armour and sword in preparation for morning drill, they turned towards the camp kitchens. They were just making their way towards the courtyard housing the cauldrons and long tables when a minor commotion near the western entrance caught their attention. The noise was somehow separate from the usual hustle and bustle of an army encampment, soldiers and horses in a disorganised tangle near the crumbling gatehouse. Orders were barked out and lost in the chaos; servants ran back and forth with alarm on their faces and various paraphernalia in their hands. Off to one side, bellowing in an attempt to organise chaos into order, stood Loghain Mac Tir. The general was clad in full armour, his sword slung over his back and an incensed look on his face.

Alistair and Flora both came to a halt to stare, unused to seeing such a loss in composure from the stoic northerner. At that moment, Loghain caught sight of the dark red beacon of Flora's hair; standing out like a banner against the dull grey backdrop of the Tevinter fortress. He cane striding towards them with a scowl embedded in his features, trailing several junior officers in his wake. The general narrowed his eyes as he glanced over Alistair – unwilling recognition flickering – then turned his dark stare to Flora. There was no way of telling that they had been in bed together the previous night; his gaze was cool and appraising.

"You need to go to the watchtower near the ravine," he stated bluntly: an order, not a request. "The king and his bodyguard are fighting off a Darkspawn ambush as we speak. Your commander has already departed.  _Horse!"_

This last word was bellowed impatiently over his shoulder. With startling speed, a horse was led up by a deferent squire; already saddled up and ready to depart. The news that Duncan was already immersed in the fight had prompted both of his recruits to scramble into action. Alistair clambered onto the saddle; before he could reach down a hand, the general had given Flora a leg up to sit behind him. Such was the urgency of the situation that Loghain did not even pass a quick palm over the curve of her rump as he did so.

"You know where the watchtower is?" snapped Mac Tir, already gesturing for his own horse.

Alistair nodded; he had passed the landmark on many dawn patrols.

"Then hurry!"

The young Warden paused before spurring the horse onwards, groping behind him to retrieve Flora's arm. Knowing that she was prone to falling off the back of saddles, he brought her arm forward around his waist. Flora obediently wrapped her second arm around his waist too, heart beating at the prospect of another engagement with their foe.

Once Alistair was certain that she was secured, he clicked his tongue at the horse; instinctively good with the animal. The crowd parted before them as they headed beneath the gatehouse arch at rapid pace. The swift trot became a canter as Alistair coaxed speed from the beast beneath him; using gentle, persuasive nudges rather than the touch of a crop. Flora clung to his waist, wishing vehemently that she had managed to find a leather tie. The breeze and their speed conspired to blow dark red strands incessantly into her face; her mouth seemed permanently full of hair.

The horse carried the two Wardens down the slope, gravel scattering beneath clattering hoofbeats as it followed the winding road. The forest soon engulfed them, fir trees towering at either side like the stiff bristles of painters' brushes. Overhead, the sky seemed shadowed with an ominous veneer; it was mid-morning, but cast with a shroud of premature shadow. There was no sign yet of any fighting, yet somewhere in the low hills before them men were fighting for their lives against a foe of unspeakable horror.

_I can loan my sword-arm,_ thought Alistair, coaxing still more speed from the horse as they clattered down the hill at break-neck pace.

_I can shield,_ thought Flora, spitting out a mouthful of hair.

_We need to be at our commander's side_ thought both of Duncan's new recruits, fervently.

A quarter-candle later and the horse was beginning to flag, tiring of such rapid pace. Fortunately, their destination was close at hand: the forest had become isolated clumps of trees, broken by jagged protrusions of rock and the occasional granite mound. In the distance, the crumbling grey stack of the watchtower was visible, shallow ravine dropping away to the east.

Now too the signs of nearby battle were apparent; men's shouts and the clash of metal drifted through the air, and they could see a tangle of figures near the base of the watchtower. A thin drizzle had begun to fall from a thickening blanket of cloud; the sudden cast across the sky plunged the landscape into semi-darkness.

"There!" called out Alistair, although Flora's vision was obscured by her own unrestrained hair.

He spurred the horse onwards, impatient to lend his sword to the defence. Flora clutched him about the waist and swallowed, feeling her heart beat a rapid crescendo against her ribcage.

_Darkspawn are like demons, but in the waking world. And I've faced lots of demons._

_Darkspawn are less tricksy than demons. It'll be fine._

_**You have no reason to fear.** _

Despite the reassurance from her spirits, Flora could taste panic sour beneath her tongue; closing her eyes for a moment, she pressed her face against the reassuring muscle-bound bulk of her brother-warden's back. Sensing her fear, Alistair unclamped his right hand from the reins and reached down to pat her arm in clumsy, wordless reassurance.

_**Calm yourself, child.** _

In what seemed like mere moments, they had arrived at the edge of the fray. It was chaotic, as all battles tended to be, with men shouting, Mabari barking and horses letting out whinnies that sounded more like screams. Cailan and his escort had been ambushed by a pack of Darkspawn lurking in the ambush; they had fought with their backs to the watchtower in an effort to counter the grim reality that they were outnumbered. The enemy consisted of a dozen Hurlocks, half as many Genlocks and one sly, slithering creature that slipped in and out of the shadows. Men were fighting desperately for their very lives, several already lying slain on the grass with horrific wounds.

Alistair drew the horse up with a clatter of hooves, twisting in the saddle to grip his sister-warden by the waist. He heaved the startled Flora up onto the wall that circled the base of the watchtower.

"Stay up here," he shouted, words lost in the melee that surrounded them. "It's safer."

It was true: Flora preferred to seek out a vantage spot in battle so that she did not have to worry about shielding herself while assisting others. She clambered to her feet atop the wall, hoping that her balance would not fail her; and squinted across the field of battle. Alistair had already plunged headfirst into the chaos, using his shield to knock down an unsuspecting Hurlock before driving his sword between his shoulder-blades.

" _For the Wardens!"_ he was bellowing, and Flora knew that he was seeking out their commander amidst the fray. She brought up a golden sheath around him to deflect a Genlock's serrated dagger-thrust, then turned her attention to a panicked squire facing off alone against a Hurlock.

The tangle of battle was so confusing that Flora quickly lost track of her brother-warden, catching only glimpses of him as he hacked and slashed his way through the foe. He was a brutal but meticulous fighter; and only rarely did she need to shield him from errant blows. She still had not seen Duncan; but there was fighting at the far side of the tower beyond her view.

As she watched, fingers curling and uncurling at her sides in preparation to summon a life-saving shield; Alistair barrelled his way back into view, placing himself bodily before a cringing squire and a lunging Hurlock. He used his own temporal shield as a battering ram, knocking it into the creature's face with tainted strength, then shoved his sword into exposed belly and dragged it sideways, sending a deluge of offal across the grass.

They had arrived near the end of the fight. The enemy numbers were thinning now, both due to the presence of an additional Warden and their new inability to land a blow on the unfortunate patrol. The last of them on this side of the tower – a Genlock with a scar malforming the right side of his head – fell to several different anger-fuelled blades. About three-quarters of the Ostagar men had survived; those had had been slain were beyond help, dead long before Flora had arrived.

Since there seemed to be no wounded and thus no pained groans or cries for help, the aftermath of the battle seemed eerily quiet. Once more the cry of birdsong echoed above the trees; the gentle patter of drizzle beat dull against the ground. The soldiers struggled to reclaim their breath, inhaling ragged gulps of air. Several fell to their knees, thanking Andraste and the Maker for the preservation of their lives.

Breathing hard, Alistair wiped the worst of the residue from his sword before sheathing it, looking around at the aftermath of the carnage. Flora lowered herself gingerly from the wall – she was not graceful enough to spring down – and trotted to join him. The corners of her mouth were decidedly curved downwards: the sight of slain men who were quite clearly beyond saving upset her greatly.

Then a cry came from the far side of the tower, echoing through the stillness of the air.

"Warden Alistair! Warden Alistair!"

Alistair looked up, startled. A young squire – grey and trembling – had just appeared around the curving base in the tower, his garb matted with dark crimson.

"Have you got your mage? Come, come quickly!" he said, seeing a wide-eyed Flora at Alistair's side. "Please, hurry!"

The far side of the tower bore a similar scene: the survivors huddled near the base of the wall, several praying and others sharing gulps from a hip-flask. Servants with scarves pulled over their mouths were pulling the Darkspawn corpses into a pile; several men were torn apart across the grass. Fear and disbelief throbbed palpably through the air; panicked whispers darted from one soldier to another.

At first, neither Alistair nor Flora could detect the source of the general shock. Both had spotted their commander leaning against a half-crumbled wall, his taint-stained swords sheathed at his back and a bloody arm cradled before him. No less than eight Darkspawn corpses were strewn at his feet; each one bearing the distinctive slash-marks of his razor sharp blades.

Duncan looked up as they approached, navigating the aftermath of his slaughter. His breathing was somewhat laboured; several strands of greying hair hung loose from the restraining band.

"Duncan," Alistair breathed, gaze dropping to the Rivaini's arm. "Maker, that wound looks deep."

Flora's mouth was now firmly twisted upside-down, her pale eyes huge with dismay. Duncan reached out with a gloved hand as though to touch her cheek, then reconsidered when he saw his bloodied fingers.

"Don't worry about me," he said, a raw vein of weariness running through the words. "It is nothing. Attend to the king,  _zahra_. I fear for him."

He made a gesture with his uninjured arm; both Flora and Alistair then realised the cause of the shock and disbelief hanging in the atmosphere like a shroud. A group of stewards and servants were gathered about a figure lying crumpled on the grass, still and motionless. Those in the crowd were stood equally frozen, nobody sure what to do. The sole noble, a bann's son with a bloodied tunic, gaped in dumbstruck silence.

At the same moment Flora felt a familiar prickling on her lips; an odd, arcane-scented tingling. She reached up to touch her mouth, feeling particles of gold fizzle against her fingertips. A trickle of gilded magic ran from her nose; the creation energy seeping from her unprompted.

"Your spirits are sending you a message,  _qalbi,"_ the Rivaini murmured, pallid beneath the tawny warmth of his flesh. "Go, quickly."

The crowd of servants and guards parted as the two young Warden-recruits made their way towards the slumped body of the king. Many of them recognised Flora from the expedition they had taken into the Wilds with Cailan all those weeks prior. Only one guard spoke as they approached, a painful rawness to his voice.

"It's too late, mender. The Maker's taken 'im."

Beside Flora, Alistair released a low exhalation of dismay; gazing at the crumpled body. Cailan was flat on his back in the trampled grass, his face oddly slack and peaceful. His sword lay at his side, covered with tainted effulgence. There was no obvious wound to his body, yet one side of his breastplate had been dented sharply inwards; the result of a crushing blow. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and his nose, the sign of massive internal damage. His eyes were half-open, and were sightless.

"Shit," said Alistair in dismay, coming an an abrupt halt near the king's limp feet. "What happened?"

"Blow to the chest, from a hulkin' beast twice the size of a normal Darkspawn," the guard murmured, face creased with regret. "Your commander took the monster down, but it were too late. He's only just gone, Andraste preserve his soul."

Flora, meanwhile, had not paid any attention to the guard's explanation. Her gaze was unfocused, her head tilted to the side and her mouth part-open, as though she were listening to something else altogether.

"Mm," she said suddenly, in response to some unheard statement. "Mm, alright."

The others looked at her, but she was speaking to no one that they could see. To the alarm of those gathered about the king's body, a thin stream of gilded energy was still trickling from the corner of Flora's mouth; she made no attempt to brush it away, already focused on her patient. Instead, ignoring the murmurs of surprise – she was vaguely aware that others thought her methods  _unconventional_  – she lowered herself to straddle Cailan's body, perching atop his thighs with her knees astride him.

"Flo?" Alistair asked hesitantly, and Flora peered at him, her gaze unfocused. "Isn't he – isn't he  _dead?"_

"Only a little bit," she mumbled, made hoarse by the energy already rolling up within her throat. "I can- "

Flora broke off, grimacing as though being reprimanded by some unheard voice. Without explanation, she hastily turned her attention back to Cailan, leaning forward to unbuckle the pieces of his breastplate. Alistair hastened forward to assist her, more adept in the removal of conventional armour.

The sight of the king's exposed chest brought forth sounds of dismay from those around him. The flesh was mottled with ugly bruising; not the shallow bluish-green variety, but the dark purple that indicated bleeding beneath its surface. In several places the skin was distended, as though the bones below were no longer in their correct place.

Alistair watched the faces of the soldiers and nobles gathered nearby; stricken either with panic, or resignation from those who were veterans of conflict. It was clear that they believed the king to be beyond saving: that the damage within was too massive for any fledgling mage to heal.

_Have faith in her,_ he wanted to tell them, stubborn even when confronted by Cailan's greying face and half-open eyes.  _I know none of you trust her, but have some faith in my sister-warden._

The junior Warden watched his fellow recruit take a deep breath, a vague calmness settling over her features. Flora had her head canted as though taking instruction from some otherworldly voice – which, he supposed, was not far from the truth. The sharp eyed young man then spotted something beneath the skin of her throat; a glimmer of light that was not caused by the glancing of weak autumnal sun off nearby armour. If Alistair had the eyesight of an elf, he would have noticed the blood-carrying vessels of the girl's body also underscored in gold; like an artist's gilt-dipped brush tracing the lines below the flesh.

Flora leaned forward, spreading languid palms over the king's maimed chest, her mouth settling firmly against his lips. He tasted cold,  _lifeless_ ; but her spirits had assured her that he could be revived and so she put any doubts aside. Exhaling a long breath of gold-laced air, she saw – in her mind's eye – the creation energy roll down the young man's still throat, billowing into the crevices and curlicues of his half-crushed lungs.

_To work, then._

_**Yes: to work. And quickly. We'll keep his spirit close.** _

Alistair watched as his sister-warden worked, straddling the king's body and bent over him in a way that would surely not be found in any healing instructor's classroom. Yet Flora had never been taught in the traditional sense; her skills honed in her dreams by her ethereal allies, who cared not for how odd their methods appeared. He saw her lips move without sound, hair hanging in thick crimson ropes onto the grass, her fingers moving in small, incomprehensible motions against the king's damaged chest. Residual particles of golden most hung in the air around them like cobwebs; those nearby took several steps back to avoid coming into contact with the magic.

Alistair glanced briefly back towards the watchtower, where his commander was leaning back against the crumbling stone; bleeding from a ferocious slash to one arm. The next moment his attention was drawn back to the king by a murmur of astonishment from those gathered about him.

Cailan's mangled chest had risen to fullness once more, the skeletal structure below knitted back together. The collapsed lung had expanded like a glassblower's tube, filled with gilded energy. The ruptured and the torn had been repaired, fresh new flesh coaxed forth by the healer's slender fingers. Even the formerly mottled skin was now clear and unblemished; the bruising melting away.

Flora looked up, spun gold clinging to her lips.

"Body's patched up" she mumbled to nobody in particular. "I'll get his soul back now. My spirits are holding it so it can't wander off."

She glanced around at the forest of metal-clad legs surrounding, then gestured one man forwards. The soldier – a burly man almost twice her breadth – looked mildly terrified, but inched forwards. The moment that he came to a halt before her, with no warning whatsoever Flora lunged forwards and headbutted him squarely in the plate-clad kneecap. The soldier swore in alarm; she slumped face-first beside Cailan.

Alistair had to bite back his own cry of dismay, resisting the urge to rush forward. His sister-warden was sprawled motionless on the grass, her face squarely planted on the mud.

Around them, the clean-up of the battlefield had almost finished. The dead had been loaded onto carts and taken back to Ostagar. The corpses of the Darkspawn were now engulfed in giant pyres, their foul stench overwhelmed by the scent of burning pine. Soldiers and nobles were exchanging muffled threads of conversation, the first roots of optimism nestled within their words. The sight of Cailan's chest – full and unblemished – had ignited some faint embers of hope in the watching crowd. Despite this, they still gave the slumped Flora a wide berth; shooting her the occasional wary look as though she were something rare but potentially dangerous.

Since much of their attention was focused on the motionless king, Alistair stepped forward and knelt beside Flora, rolling her carefully onto her back. Her face was peaceful, as though she were sleeping, lips parted and eyes closed. There was an egg-shaped lump swollen beneath the smooth skin of her forehead.

_You have to come up with an easier way to get yourself quickly into the Fade,_ he thought to himself, gritting his teeth over her casual recklessness.  _You can't just keep knocking yourself out. I know you can heal it, but –_

No one was paying attention to them, their eyes fixed on the king. Alistair unbuckled his gloves, then brushed his thumb around the edge of his sister-warden's hairline. There was a single eyelash resting on the high plane of her cheekbone. He removed it gently, then returned his attention to the swelling. To his surprise, the lump had already reduced itself to half its size; the bruising far more diluted than it had been just a moment prior.

"Clever girl," the young man murmured reluctantly, part to her and part to himself. "Look at you."

Just then, there came a general inhalation of sudden, shocked breath. One man swore under his breath, another uttered a shocked prayer. Alistair looked across at the king, who was no longer prostrate and motionless; but sitting upright with a mildly perturbed expression.

"Did you kill the rest of the Darkspawn without me?" Cailan complained, utterly oblivious to the array of startled faces around him. "Maker, you could have at least saved  _one_ for me. Did I take a blow to the head? How long have I been knocked out? Long enough to miss all the fun!

He clambered to his feet and the nobles parted before him, still mouthing their astonishment. At last one of them spoke: a brave bann's son from the north-west.

"Your majesty, you were… you were grievously injured. We thought that we had lost you."

The statement now seemed absurd, since Cailan was standing before them in a picture of perfect health, mildly confused.

"Grievously injured?"he repeated in bewilderment. "Well, that explains why my breastplate's off. I'm alright now. Shall we go hunting for more Darkspawn? I feel as though there's a debt to be repaid!"

"I think that we ought to return to camp," suggested a grey-haired noble, diplomatic and deferent. "It looks like it's going to rain again, my lord."

The sky above had indeed taken on a gloomier cast, clouds sailing in on a swift westerly wind. The mist clinging to the trees had begun to grow denser, hanging in long skeins towards the ground.

"Flora healed you," Alistair interrupted, determined that his sister-warden's contribution not be overlooked. "She saved your life."

Cailan glanced down at the young mage lying prostrate on the grass at his feet, the swelling on her forehead almost gone. A flicker of rival emotions crossed his face: this was the girl who had rejected his own advances, only to jump into bed with not only her commander, but Cailan's own dour, sour-faced father in law.

"I'll send something to her tent later," he said at last, stiff but not unkindly. "As a token of my gratitude."

As the king and his companions busied themselves with the preparation to depart, Alistair returned his attention to his sister-warden. With the swelling on her forehead barely discernible, she looked as though she were merely sleeping; her face as solemn and earnest in sleep as it was during her waking hours. He shifted his position – it was awkward to kneel in mail – and reached out to touch her, tracing the delicate contour of her cheekbone with a thumb.

A moment later she grimaced, and Alistair withdrew his hand quickly, leaning in close. One large, grey eye opened, blinked and was then joined by a second; gazing up at the handsome, worried face hovering above her. The face let out a sigh of relief, framed against a background of broad shoulders.

"Thank the Maker. We  _have_ to find a way for you…  _not_ to do that, Flo."

Flora smiled up at him, slightly vaguely; her fingers coming up to touch the spot on her forehead where the lump had risen. Now only the faintest of discolouration remained, fading by the minute. Finding nothing substantial to heal, she sat upright, looking to her left where the king was formerly lying. As before, there was nothing – only a faint indentation in the grass. She swivelled her head to the right, focusing on the king as he stood a dozen yards away amidst a group of followers, preparing the horses for departure.

"You're right," she replied eventually, satisfied now that she had confirmed that her patient was alive and well. "I have so  _little_  brains, it doesn't make much sense to scramble them."

Then, the king proven thoroughly healed, both young Wardens turned their attention to the matter that had been pressing at the back of their minds for the past half-candle. Alistair clambered upright and reached down a hand to Flora; she took it gratefully, not yet entirely steady on her feet. They both turned as one towards the watch-tower; then an imperious voice rang out from behind them.

"Boy! You, young lad."

It was the grey-haired noble who had spoken, one hand clutching the reins of his horse

"The king needs a Warden to accompany him back to the camp, to prevent further ambush."

Alistair's face contorted: he could see the logic in the man's instruction, yet he wanted desperately to go to his commander's side and ensure that he was alright. Flora saw the conflict on her brother-warden's face, and wrapped her fingers around his arm; peering up at him in earnest.

"It's alright," she whispered, seeing him about to protest. "Go. I'll fix him. You  _know_ I will. I  _promise_  I'll fix him, Alistair."

Alistair replied with an agonised look but acquiesced, reluctantly parting from her to join the noble company. A more tender farewell was not possible bathed in the heat of their expectant stares; he shot her a quick glance over his shoulder and she waved at him, a slender figure against the charred remnants of the Darkspawn piles.

As soon as the king's party had departed between the trees, Flora turned back towards the watchtower. The forest clearing was all but deserted, save for a few scattered servants collecting discarded weaponry. As a native of the north, she barely noticed that it was now raining; a thin and constant drizzle from the woven blanket of cloud above.

With heart pounding and a churning nausea in her belly, Flora half-ran back towards the ruined structure. She almost expected their commander to no longer be there; to have vanished during the span of a quarter-candle that it had taken her to heal the king.

To her relief Duncan was still there, though he was no longer standing. Instead, in a sensible decision to conserve his strength, he was sitting with his back to the stone; a bloody makeshift bandage wrapped around his torn arm. His eyes were shut, and he seemed to be lost in thought. It was clear that he was in pain, for he had made no effort to seek shelter from the rain he hated so much within the ruined watchtower.

Despite his obvious discomfort, the Warden-Commander smiled as he felt his young recruit approach; her presence like a gleaming candle in the shadowy recess of his mind. He opened his eyes as she half-fell to her knees to the grass beside him, her hands already reaching for the makeshift bandage.

" _Qalbi,"_ he said softly, amused by the melancholy expression on her face as she peered up at him. "How's the king?"

"Fine," his mage mumbled, her small fingers making swift work of his one-handed knots. "Gone back Ostagar – mmph- "

Heedless of the rain, Flora had just planted her face against the tawny muscle of his arm, pressing her mouth to one end of the gash. The Warden-Commander let out an inadvertent sigh of relief as the anaesthetising numbness of her breath seeped into the wound. It

Mending the clawmark was a relatively simple task for the healer – there was no splintered bone to reform, no vital organs to rejuvenate. There was only flesh and sinew to knit together; and the sour remnants of the Blight – left by the creature's claw – to purge. Flora, still horribly upset at the fact that her commander had been injured, sniffled miserably against his skin while her magic wove slender fibres of flesh back together.

Many people in the act of being healed looked away, but the Rivaini was fascinated by the entire process; as befitting one from a nation who revered mages instead of reviling them. Astonished, he gazed at his arm as the gaping flesh fused itself back together without even the hint of a mottled scar. Instead, fresh new skin had been breathed into existence to seal the tear; worked into place with the subtle knitting motions of Flora's fingers.

Only a minute or so later she returned upright; the wound purged of corruption and mended so throughly that Duncan knew he would soon forget where it had even been located. Despite the success of her endeavour, Flora did not look happy. The Rivaini had to hold back a laugh at his young mistress' forlorn expression: her hair hung loose in damp strands, her mouth bloodied and her eyes huge and tragic.

" _Zahra,"_ he said, stifling a smile. "It wasn't  _that_  bad a wound; I've had far worse. No need to- "

It was too late: Flora had dissolved into tears, northern composure subsiding into fearfulness. She slumped forward, curling an arm around her lover's neck and pressing her face into his shoulder.

Duncan was oddly touched: no one had ever cried over an injury he had received in the past. The Rivaini reached out – both arms now restored to full function – and drew her close to his chest; inhaling the scent of the salt-soap she used in her hair.

"Hush, my love," he murmured, letting a broad palm wander in reassuring circles over her slender, heaving shoulders. "No harm done. At the worst I would have had another scar, and you've spared me that."

Flora's fingers curled against the hard and unyielding contour of his breastplate, unwilling to release him. The tears were still sliding down her cheeks, hot and wet; they clung to her eyelashes and clumped them together. She could feel a broad and reassuring hand spread across her shoulder-blades, the thumb massaging comfort into the nape of her neck.

"Hush," the old Rivaini breathed in her ear as she turned her miserable face towards him. "Little one. Seeing you weep hurts more than the Hurlock's claw."

Flora's lower lip wobbled dangerously: she did not want to be reminded of the wound inflicted by their mortal enemy. Sensing that she was about to dissolve into a second bout of tears, Duncan tilted her face up by the chin and kissed her; pressing his lips to her unhappy mouth. This had the desired effect of halting the next onslaught of tears. She gazed up him with miserable eyes, still distraught at the fact that her mentor had been injured.

The rain was increasing in fervour now, graduating from a drizzle into a downpour. An accompanying mist was settling in; it would be difficult to navigate the winding and perilous track back to the hilltop fortress. Duncan made the executive decision to seek out shelter. He unwound himself from Flora – smiling at the resultant squeak of dismay as she was let go – and rose upright with the agility of a man several decades younger.

After reaching down to retrieve his recruit's outstretched hand, Duncan glanced around to assess the situation. His horse was grazing beneath the trees, unbothered by the mist and drizzle. The earth was wet and bloodied in places; he had no desire to sit his  _qalbi_ down in the damp. Flora paid little attention to her surroundings as he led her across the grass, and around the perimeter of the tower until they reached the doorway. Only the wooden frame remained, revealing a single, shadowed circular chamber beyond. It contained nothing but the broken frame of a table, and patches of overcast sky were visible through the rafters. Rain fell through the broken ceiling, pooling between the cracked flagstones.

Duncan now wanted nothing more than to find somewhere dry and free of damp; it was not particularly cold, but he could no longer tolerate water running down the back of his neck. Spotting a trapdoor near the far wall, he released Flora's hand and went to lift the wooden lid. Below lay an ink-black and cavernous space, the darkness thoroughly concealing what lay at the bottom of the ladder. By now, Flora's tears had slowed to a soft snuffle; she rotated herself in preparation to climb down first, one hand already gleaming. Duncan reached out a gentle arm to stop her, shaking his head.

"Not you,  _amira._ Age before beauty."

Instead Flora dropped to her knees to lower a hand instead the darkness, light streaming from her fingers. There appeared to be nothing sinister below – the golden rays illuminated plain stone walls and bare floorboards.

When Duncan reached the bottom of the ladder, he saw – to his relief – that the lower chamber was far more inhabitable than the top. The rustic furniture had been protected from the elements; intact shelves climbed one wall, while a table and chairs stood opposite. A pallet mattress, stuffed with straw, rested on the floorboards nearby. In the corner, a small well was covered with a wooden cover. Everything appeared clean and neatly maintained, the Warden-Commander assumed that this was the occasional haunt of bandits or others who had cause to hide out in the woods.

_Still,_ Duncan thought as he circulated the room, lighting the candlesticks with the flintspark he always kept in his possession,  _it suits our requirements very well._

"Come down,  _qalbi,"_ he called, seeing Flora's gloomy face hovering at the top of the ladder as she peered inside. "Careful, the bottom two rungs are missing."

The Rivaini stood at the base of the ladder, watching her clamber down with an admiring eye. He reached up to take her in his arms once she was within reach; she curled her arms around his neck and settled her chin on his shoulder.

"Your ass was measured in perfect proportion by Ancient Tevinter scholars," he whispered in her ear, knowing that she would have no idea what the compliment meant. "Then crafted by their finest sculptors. It's a work of art."

"I'm from Ferelden," mumbled Flora, confirming his suspicions.

Duncan laughed, keeping her suspended with one arm while spreading his cloak across the pallet mattress, dry lining up. He lowered Flora there – not overthinking his decision to take her to the bed rather than to the table and chairs – and began the process of unbuckling his armour. Flora watched him, winding loose strands of hair around her fingers. Her cheeks were still marked by the remnants of tears, although she was no longer crying.

It did not take Duncan long to remove the outer pieces of his armour – he had lived in it for three decades, after all – revealing the soft leathers he wore below. Keeping his blades nearby, he sat down on the pallet mattress beside Flora, and reached for the buttons of her plain linen shirt.

"We need to get these wet clothes off, my flower _,"_ he breathed, admiring the creamy flesh of her throat. "Immediately."

"We… we do?"

"Yes,  _qalbi._ And then we need to create some  _body heat_ to combat this chill."

As he had hoped, the corner of Flora's mouth twitched upwards; her huge, solemn eyes focused on his face with a spark of interest.

"I don't never get cold," she whispered, slipping back into the northern patois of her childhood.

"Hush," he murmured, running the tip of his tongue over his lips as the cleft of her shallow cleavage was revealed by inches. "It's my  _duty_  to warm you up."

The Rivaini undid the final button, opening the linen folds of the shirt to reveal his young lover's small, succulent breasts, like ripe golden pears ready for plucking. A half-groan tangled in Duncan's throat as his cock sprang to life in his breeches; he pushed the shirt gently from Flora's shoulders and leaned back to admire the view. His hands rose to cup her, tawny fingers framing the milk-coloured swells.

"Have I ever said that you've the prettiest breasts I've ever seen?" he observed, captivated by the dusky perfection of her nipples. "Fucking edible. Mm."

The Rivaini leaned forward and wrapped his tongue around one pert, pink tip; eliciting a small moan from his young recruit. As he suckled, he caressed her other breast with tender fingers, fondling the plump little mound as she quivered.

After a moment Duncan drew back, leaving her wide-eyed and blushing, hardened nipple wet with his saliva. He smiled at her astonishment; sexual pleasure was still new and deliciously exciting for his young recruit. She had reacted much the same way when he had stripped her in his tent, less than a day after he had given her her first proper kiss.

"Let's get you naked for me,  _qalbi,"_ he murmured, no longer bothering with the body heat excuse. "It's been far too long since I laid eyes on that sweet little cunt of yours."

Flora shot him a shy smile; for of course he had laid eyes on her just that morning. While a blushing Alistair stole swift glances as he waited, Duncan had dribbled oil onto her mound and expertly stripped off the emerging wisps of hair with a slender blade. Their commander had checked the smoothness with a thumb, then called Alistair over for a second opinion. A pink-cheeked Alistair, trying not to stutter, also confirmed that his sister-warden's shaven mound felt soft and hairless. Stifling a smile, Duncan had released his  _qalbi_ into her fellow recruit's company, instructing him to take her to the wash-tent.

Now, in the cellar of the ruined watchtower, the Warden-Commander guided his lover down onto the pallet and began to unlace her breeches. Flora lifted her hips obligingly, letting him draw the leather down her thighs.

"Tell me about your morning," he said, close to her ear, " _lī amira."_

Flora shifted against the pallet as further inches of slender thigh were revealed. Duncan's usual patience was limited in the adrenaline-fuelled aftermath of battle. He had taken her smallclothes down with her breeches: he wanted her naked without delay.

"I went to the wash-tent with Alistair," she said, lifting one foot and then the other as each leg of the breeches was revealed. "I had a bath."

Duncan smiled at her rustic northerner's pronunciation, letting his fingers play in her rain-damp loosened hair even as his eyes wandered down the smooth contour of her belly.

"Hm. Alistair was fortunate to start his morning off with such a view."

The Warden-Commander gripped his recruit by her hips, lifting her over his thigh in a smooth motion; perching her on his knee as he settled against the straw-stuffed mattress. Flora curled one arm around his neck, admiring the gilded hoop looped through one ear. In turn, he turned appreciative eyes on the silk-smooth creaminess of her mound; plump and neatly nestled between her own thighs.

"And could he resist the sight?" he asked, amused, letting a caressing hand drop from Flora's breast to her belly.

"No," she whispered, a distinct note of yearning in her voice as his thumb drew a lazy circle around her belly button. "He couldn't."

"What man could?"

As Duncan spoke, he dropped a hand between her thighs; already parted in preparation. He felt her quiver on his knee, back arching and the breath catching in her throat as he worked his forefinger between her neat folds. As his fingertip found her clitoris, she let out a whimper and something unintelligible slipped from her throat.

"What was that,  _qalbi?"_ he asked, massaging her tiny pearl mercilessly between finger and thumb. "Say it again."

" _Dīda,"_ she breathed and the Rivaini let out a low rumble of approval.  _"Don't stop."_

Duncan chuckled, letting his little finger slip downwards between slick and swollen folds; the blood rushing southwards in her excitement.

"So wet already, my beauty," he observed, relishing the sound that his stroking made. "Such a good girl. Part your thighs a little wider for me."

Flora did as he said, leaning back against her commander's chest. He kept one arm around her waist, amused at how she quivered with shy anticipation atop his thigh. Yet his young recruit was not entirely innocent; his cock stood erect within his breeches and she deliberately ground her rear against the leather-covered hardness, letting the pressure part her buttocks.

For a moment, Duncan considered his options. He kissed her bare neck as he mused, letting his lips wander in a thoughtful trail from her ear to her shoulder.

_I could tease her, bring her close to climax and then snatch the ultimate moment away. I love to hear my sweet little qalbi beg for it._

_But she's been a good girl today. Saved Cailan's life, by the sound of it. She deserves something special._

Flora was wriggling on his lap with extra fervour now, the press of his mouth against the tender skin of her neck coaxed small pants from her throat. He recognised the distinct sound of the whimper – it said, in no uncertain terms,  _I need it. I need it now._

Resting his bearded chin on her shoulder, Duncan returned his attention to the orbit of his finger around her clitoris. He could feel her pearl stiff and throbbing where the side of his finger nudged against it; accompanied by the slickness of her arousal.

"My sweet and lovely girl," he breathed in Flora's small ear as she arched her back against him. "My princess. You're going to come so beautifully for me."

"Ah, so that explains why the lass didn't accompany Cailan back to camp," a dry, acerbic voice came filtering down from above. "She was too busy  _coming for you."_

Duncan just about managed to keep his composure. It was rare that anything startled the Warden-Commander in his twilight years, but the general had seemingly managed it. Flora hid her surprise less well, turning round eyes and an open mouth on Loghain Mac Tir as he dropped the last few feet to the floorboards. Landing with a solid thud, the general crossed his arms and glowered at the pair on the mattress. With a breathless Flora naked and sitting on Duncan's lap, it was very apparent what he had just interrupted.

"Alistair accompanied the king back to camp," the Rivaini replied, resuming the stroking of his young recruit's clitoris. "The lad is brave, skilled and would have done an exemplary job as escort."

The northerner let out a surly grunt of begrudging acknowledgement. It was true that he had found nothing to criticise Alistair for: the king had arrived safe and sound in camp, then insisted the junior warden that accompany him for a drink. Instead, he turned his attention to Flora; who rapidly turned pink beneath his stare. The general said nothing; openly gazing at her breasts, her parted thighs, her gleaming cunt with the scrutiny of a commander inspecting a field map. Flora blinked back at him, caught somewhere between embarrassment and excitement; feeling a little like a Circle apprentice caught in the arms of a young Templar.

Once Loghain had finished taking in the view of her body, he lifted his dark eyes to meet Duncan's faintly amused, keen-edged stare. The two men said nothing, yet Flora soon became aware of an odd prickling of the atmosphere around them. It was as though the rivalry between the two men – ever-present, and augmented by her own arrival at Ostagar – had manifested into something physical; a current that charged the particles of the air and made the downy hairs on her forearms rise. She could not see the expression on Duncan's face, aware only of his heated breath on the back of her neck. The rhythm of his exhalation was faster than it had been before Loghain's unexpected entrance; it sounded now as though he were drawing breath in preparation for combat. Flora  _could_ see Loghain's face, but this gave little away. The stoic northerner's expression was carefully neutral, although his eyes flared with a sudden, fierce heat like coals prodded with a poker.

"Do you even know how to indulge in foreplay, Mac Tir?" the Rivaini asked, his voice light and steady. "From what I hear, you spend little time in the  _appreciation_  of a woman's body."

"I've spent plenty of time  _appreciating_  the girl," growled the general, taking a step forward as he removed his gloves with measured haste. "Haven't I, lass?"

"Mmm," mumbled a vague and unhelpful Flora, distracted by the resumption of Duncan's light-fingered stroke. "Mm, yes."

"So you don't just order a woman onto her hands and knees like a Mabari, then?" retorted her commander, a mocking edge to the question. "Or is that rumour untrue?"

"I know how to prepare a woman for rutting," countered Loghain, discarding pieces of his armour with each step taken across the floorboards. "But, Rivaini, don't forget – the lass gets wet for me before I even remove her clothes. She  _begs_ me to take her without delay."

Flora let out a self-conscious squeak, wriggling shyly on Duncan's lap but unable to deny the truth in his words.

The corner of her commander's mouth curved upwards in a faintly insolent smile, his thumb still circling her sensitive pearl in slow, teasing rotations.

"Well then," he said, a faint thread of challenge. "Let's see the infamous Mac Tir  _foreplay_  in action. Take her breasts; I'll go below. Best if we keep some  _distance_  between us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohohohoho threeway shenanigans coming up!!!


	65. The Commander, the General and Flora

The general let out a fervent grunt of agreement, though his stare was once more fixated on the wide-eyed and oblivious Flora. The young recruit had no idea that she was at the centre of an unspoken transaction that had just taken place above her head. Curious and excited in equal measure, she let her commander shift her from his lap onto the mattress, letting her sprawl back against the blanket.

For a moment both men remained silent, gazing down at the naked girl lying languid before them, crimson hair spread around her like a veil. Flora gazed back up at them, her sculpted face beautiful and oddly serene; like some erotic muse waiting for the adoration of her body to begin.

Loghain muttered a profanity under his breath, unable to tear his eyes from her. Although he had kept his composure remarkably well; in truth, he had been painfully erect from the moment he had set eyes on her squirming in Duncan's lap. He dropped a hand to his breeches, passing a rough palm over the straining outline of his cock. She noticed the gesture and cast him a sweet, shy smile of appreciation.

The general took this as an invitation, and wasted no further time. Striding forwards, he took up position at the head of the bed and reached forward; cupping both pert swells of flesh in both palms. They felt firm and deliciously ripe beneath his fingers; twin peaches that almost begged to be caressed.

"I missed your lips around my cock this morning, girl," he told Flora as she gazed up at him, a slow flush creeping up her throat. "I presume you were occupied elsewhere?"

"Mm," whispered back Flora, her breath coming increasingly unsteady as he brushed his thumbs over her nipples. "I'll make up for it. I like sucking you each morning."

Loghain shot a sly sideways glance at Duncan, who had withdrawn to rummage through his travel pack. The Rivaini let out a snort but refused to rise to the bait, continuing the search.

"And why do you like it so much, lass?" the general enquired, squeezing her nipples gently between finger and thumb. "Fucking beautiful little tits."

"I like the way you feel in my mouth," she breathed back earnestly, thinking on the thick, vein-laced length of the northerner's throat. "And you fit in my throat so well."

A reluctant groan escaped from Loghain's throat as he stared down at her; something raw and uncontrolled in the depths of his irises. Flora gazed back at him, solemn and guileless.

As Duncan finished setting up the  _al-rani_ crystal against a nearby bookshelf, he heard the distinct sound of lips meeting. He turned around, eyes narrowed, to see the general kissing the little mage with a fierce and untempered passion; the likes of which the Rivaini had not seen since the man's ill-fated romance with Rowan Guerrin. A delighted Flora had wound her arms around her northern lover's neck, yielding her mouth willingly to the interloper's tongue. Her body was equally compliant; thighs parting and hips arching upwards in readiness for the general's shaft.

Duncan let out a low growl of warning in his throat, returning to the mattress in three strides.

"I said her  _breasts,_ Mac Tir."

The general paused – as though considering the ramifications of ignoring his rival – but decided that the potential consequences were not worth the risk. Instead of removing his mouth from Flora, he began to press his lips in a meandering trail down her neck. Each kiss brought him closer to her breasts, leaving damp imprints of affection against the unblemished canvas of his lover's skin.

Meanwhile, Duncan knelt at the foot of the mattress; eyeing Flora as she quivered beneath the general's stubble-laced kisses. He could see between her parted thighs, and – to his irritation – noted that Mac Tir had not been lying. There was a distinct sheen of fresh wetness across the neat little folds of his  _qalbi's_ most intimate part.

The Rivaini's annoyance at the cause of his recruit's excitement was swiftly overpowered by anticipation. Flora's sweetness was a taste that he could not get enough of; he would happily feast on the nectar of her cunt all day if given the choice. Licking his lips, he parted her thighs and lowered his head between her legs.

Loghain, who had just pressed a kiss to Flora's cleavage, heard her inhale a quick, unsteady breath. He raised his gaze for a moment, long enough to take in the dark, grey-streamed head nestled between Flora's thighs. She moaned – he could feel the vibration within her chest – and arched her hips; shamelessly inviting the Rivaini's tongue to explore the soft, sweet-laced folds. One small hand wandered downwards, fingers brushing affectionately against the top of her commander's head.

Scowling, the general returned his attention to the girl's small, high breasts; pinching one nipple between calloused finger and thumb until she squeaked. He then lapped at the tender nipple with a loving tongue, coating the stiff little peak with a generous layer of saliva before pinching it mercilessly once more. Flora whimpered, turning hot and helpless eyes on him as she let her other hand drift onto his shoulder.

This time, Duncan raised his head from between Flora's thighs – still appearing remarkably composed considering what he was engaged in – and shot the northerner a warning glower.

"You're hurting her."

"No more than you were last night," retorted Loghain, quick as a whip. "I saw those bronze clamps you put on her. And the paddle."

"An area I've experience in," replied the Warden-Commander, sliding a finger between Flora's folds. "Have you any experience with a woman - save for your Mabari bitch - in recent years?"

The northerner bit back a snort, since this vein of humour was startlingly Fereldan coming from a man who claimed Rivaini heritage. Instead of continuing the verbal sparring, he darted his head down towards Flora. She was was wriggling, eyes closed and lips parted; delighted by both the slow fingering and the teasing of her nipples.

"The little lass enjoys it," Loghain replied throatily as he continued to pinch finger and thumb together. "I'd not hurt her beyond what gives her pleasure."

Duncan eyed Flora, who was too busy caught up in the throes of sensation to pay any attention to their conversation. He admitted begrudgingly that she  _did_ seem to be enjoying Mac Tir's attentions; one hand was clinging to the general's shoulder as though anchoring herself. The Rivaini lowered his face back between Flora's thighs, drawing her slick folds apart. Exposing her clitoris with an expert thumb, he began to tease the naked bud with the tip of his tongue; flicking it up and down across the sensitive flesh. He heard his  _qalbi_  let out a strangled sound, her hips bucking upwards as she wriggled; tears coming to her eyes at the intensity of the pleasure.

By mutual unspoken agreement, Loghain manoeuvred himself behind Flora; drawing her shoulders onto his lap. He could then hold her in place, restraining her with his arm as she squirmed.

"Don't try and get away," he murmured against her hair, amused by the fact that she could catapult both men across the room with a flick of her magically-imbued finger. "You love it."

Flora wriggled against the old soldier but with little real effort, feeling his heavy breath riffle across the top of her head. The more she pushed against him the tighter he held her, gripping her back against his chest. Duncan, seeing that she was restrained, resumed his efforts; feasting on the soft and swollen folds between her thighs with resumed energy. He suckled on her clitoris, admiring the dusky pink of the swollen bud as it shone with both his saliva and her own arousal. One exploratory finger slid further between her thighs, parting her buttocks.

"The Maker played a cruel jest sending  _this_  before me to tempt me from my duty," Loghain murmured in the meantime, caressing the whimpering Flora from her throat down to her shaven mound. "Parading such a tight little ass around Ostagar at a time when I should be at my most focused.  _Distracting_ me."

Flora just about had the coherence to respond, though her words were trembling and half-gasped.

"I- I don't mean to  _d-distract_  you."

The general snorted, eyeing the slow pump of Duncan's finger in and out of the nestled folds.

"And yet I still find you on your knees in my tent each morning."

She shot him a shy, sideways smile, darting a quick glance from beneath her eyelashes. Loghain bowed his head, intending to suckle a hard and possessive mark into her neck. Instead – taking advantage of Duncan being immersed in her mound – the two northerners shared a lingering, longing kiss; their lips working together with tender affection.

Just then Flora's chin was gripped in firm fingers, her face tilted away and her mouth reclaimed by a possessive set of lips. The commander had surfaced from between her thighs and asserted his ownership over his  _qalbi,_ kissing her with an even greater fervour. The delighted Flora put her free arm around his neck, parting her lips without hesitation to accommodate the demands of his tongue. Loghain let out a rumble of irritation, leaning backwards as his lip curled in annoyance.

"Leaving a job half-done?" he commented snidely, canting his head towards Flora's thighs. "Lass hasn't come yet."

In response Duncan kept kissing her, stealing the breath from her throat with fierce adoration. Simultaneously his hand crept downwards, palm curving possessively over the silky surface of her mound. His fingers parted the neatly nestled folds as his callused thumb begin a rough massage of the saliva-slickened pearl. Loghain felt the girl's whole body arch, a strangled cry escaping from her throat only to be captured immediately by Duncan's covetous lips.

It did not take long for the experienced Rivaini to coax a climax from his young lover. Minutes later she convulsed within Loghain's grip, a helpless wail of pleasure tore free and echoed about the cellar room. Duncan lifted the warm hand that had administered such pleasure and cupped her face proudly, kissing her as she slumped in a post-orgasmic daze. The general took advantage of his rival's temporary distraction to drop his own hand between Flora's thighs, shamelessly gliding his fingers between her folds to gather the honey-sweet proof of her climax.

The Warden-Commander parted from his  _qalbi,_ gazing down at her with eyes bruised with tenderness. By now Flora was barely keeping herself upright, one palm pressed against on the mattress and bearing a dazed expression. He reached out to caress the artistic planes of her face, touching the high bone of her cheek, the delicate arch of her brow; his thumb finally settling on the full invitation of her lips.

"You've such a pretty mouth,  _amira,"_ he murmured, letting his thumb explore the pink and pouting plushness. "In truth, I'd been dreaming about these sulking lips since I first took you from the Circle."

Duncan smiled to himself ruefully, remembering earlier nights of self-pleasure fuelled by fantasies of the crimson-haired girl with the grave, mist-coloured eyes he had recruited from Kinloch Hold. Each time he had spilled his seed into his palm, he had felt an accompanying twinge of guilt; fighting against the untruth that he had taken her only to bed her.

_No. I took her because she had a gift that they could not understand, and that I could use._

Flora generally did not pick up on the subtleties of language, but she understood the meaning of her mentor's comment well enough. Pressing her palms into the mattress, thick ropes of dark red hair hanging loose around her hips, she manoeuvred herself onto her knees. She then looked between the two men, anticipation and expectation writ across her solemn, finely-hewn face. Loghain and Duncan rose to their feet, each eyeing the other to see how smoothly their similarly-aged counterpart rose. Both men were noticeably erect within their trousers; the outline of their shafts standing out against the material.

The general unlaced the top of his breeches, pulling the strings free until the broad, thickly veined length of his cock sprang forth from its nest of greying curls. Flora gazed at it longingly, pink flaring on the high apples of her cheek. The girl had not been lying earlier when she had said that she missed Loghain's cock in her mouth.

Duncan, noticing Flora's desirous stare, decided to up the ante. To surpass his rival's efforts, the Rivaini did not stop at unlacing his breeches; but continued to discard all of his remaining clothes. Casually and deliberately, he revealed a lean, hard-muscled physique honed by three decades spent fighting Ferelden's most insidious foe. It was clearly the body of an older man – the tawny skin was strewn with the remnants of battle, the abdomen no longer as defined as it had once been – but one in remarkable condition. To Loghain's mild irritation Flora's head spun like a magnet, gazing up at Duncan with huge, adoring eyes. The Rivaini smiled back down at her; the tender affection in contrast to the broad, umber-toned cock that jutted out from above powerful thighs.

_My sac is bigger than his,_ he thought, amused by such a juvenile thought.  _Ha._

Flora took a deep breath – this would be the first time she had pleasured two men at once – and reached out tentatively. She had wondered if she would need to lick her palms to provide some slickness, but as she took each cock in hand she found that both were already damp with arousal. She curled her fists around each length, hands too small for her fingers to encompass their full circumference, and glanced up at her commander, and Duncan gave her a reassuring nod.

_Keep going,_ affectionate eyes encouraged.

Tentatively, Flora began to draw her fists back and forth, bringing them closer to her face before sliding them away. To her relief, it did not require too much coordination and she soon settled into a rhythm. Both men felt slick and warm against her palms; she could feel the hard ridges of the veins on Loghain's shaft beneath her curled fingers.

Loghain had his teeth gritted in an effort not to let the sounds of satisfaction slip free from his throat. This was easier said than done; even if Flora was not the most expert at stimulating a man by hand, she was still a beautiful girl kneeling naked before him with his cock grasped in her small fist. Duncan, on the other hand, had no qualms about expressing his pleasure. A groan slipped from his throat; he gazed down at her with heated, coal-dark eyes.

"Good girl," the Rivaini murmured to Flora, relishing in his own lack of reserve. "Rub my cock. You beautiful creature."

Flora smiled up at him, awed and delighted that she was performing well in this first challenge of her three-a-bed experience. Her pale eyes moved from one occupied fist to another, and the Warden-Commander had to stifle a laugh.

_She's comparing what we looks like,_ he thought fondly.  _Shall I ask which cock she prefers?_

_No, that would be cruel. She'd be obligated to say me, and yet she's always had a strange fascination with Mac Tir._

Instead, he continued to murmur praise, proud of his  _qalbi_ as she carefully coordinated the twin pumps of her fists. Slick sounds of flesh against flesh echoed around the small chamber; and  _finally_  a reluctant moan of pleasure slipped from the general's throat, his eyes half-closing.

"At last," observed Duncan acerbically, flashing a brief smile down at Flora as she caressed his sac with her fingertips. "I was beginning to think you had donned some Orlesian mask of stiff countenance. It does the girl a disservice to stay so mute."

Loghain ground his teeth but his stoicism had been broken. Seeing no point in continuing the charade, he let out an unsteady exhalation; a flush creeping upwards from the collar of his linen undershirt.

"Fuck, that feels good. Don't stop, lassie."

This rewarded him with a smile from Flora, a brief curving of the mouth that was remarkably demure considering she had his cock grasped in her fist.

" _Qalbi?"_

She returned her gaze to Duncan, attentive pupil, even as her fists continued to slide dutifully back and forth along the substantial length of both meaty shafts. Her commander gave her a small nod of encouragement, feeling more of his arousal leaking onto her small palm.

"Take one into your mouth, but keep using your fist on the other," he instructed, fondly. "It might take you a small while to get used to it."

Duncan then waited - with baited breath - but he needn't have worried. Despite Flora's fascination with the thickly veined surface of her fellow northerner's cock, she would never prioritise the general before her primary and first lover. Trying unsuccessfully to hide her excitement, the girl licked her lips in preparation and then turned her head towards her mentor. She inhaled his cock greedily, the first four inches disappearing between full and sulky lips.

The Rivaini could not help but shoot a triumphant look across at his rival. Loghain, unperturbed, let out a throaty snort.

"Saving the best till last, girl?" he commented, thrusting himself against the soft skin of Flora's palm.

Unfortunately this comment merely served to confuse Flora, who paused and rolled her eyes upwards in perplexion. Duncan shot the general a glower, reaching out to caress the tousled top of her head.

"Never mind him. Keep going, baby."

She returned her attention to his cock, wrapping her lips around the head and drawing it several inches into her mouth. Duncan kept his palm spread across her head, inhaling an unsteady breath as he felt himself brushing the back of her throat. She kept her fingers wrapped tight around the base of his shaft, her littlest finger curling idly against his sac. At a nod from him she began to move her head back and forth, suckling away in the exact way that her commander had taught her.

It took her a few moments to grow used to the simultaneous motion of head and fist, each one attending to a different man. Aware that this was her first time with two others, Loghain bit back the urge to intervene; waiting until her fingers had reclaimed their earlier rhythm. Flora's hand was not the hand of a soldier, it bore no marks or sword-hilt calluses. Her palm was soft and unblemished, her nails short and her fingers small. Yet she had the strong grip of a northern girl, who  _would_  have had calluses from hauling ropes and carrying buckets if not for her peculiar ability to self-heal. She stroked his cock within a firm little fist, increasingly confident as she pumped him from root to tip.

More to disguise the sudden weakness in his knees, the general reached down to touch Flora's right breast, curving roughened fingers around the high and creamy mound. Not to be outdone, his rival reached for her left breast, rolling the nipple in a gentle pinch. Flora let out a whimper around Duncan's cock, the sound part-muffled by the thick column of flesh.

"You've the most skilled mouth in Thedas," the Warden-Commander informed his recruit breathlessly, heated tendrils of pleasure snaking their way down his thighs. "You talented girl."

Loghain let out a pointed grunt; a northern reprimand. Flora suckled Duncan for a moment more, then dutifully twisted her head. Sliding her fist to the base of the general's veined shaft, she took him between her lips and inhaled. At the same time, her fingers rose to clamp around her commander, tightening their grip on the saliva-slick muscle.

Mac Tir shot his rival a triumphant look as Flora's dark red head bobbed back and forth along his length; the soft, wet sound of her lapping tongue drifting up from between his thighs.

"She's devouring me, Rivaini," he observed, a dark edge of amusement in his tone. "Ah, for the love of Andraste- "

Loghain inhaled unsteadily, his nostrils flaring. As Duncan had done, he reached down to spread a possessive palm across the top of Flora's head; guiding the pace of her suckling.

Duncan eyed his  _qalbi,_ old enough to find amusement at the slight flicker of envy that had just kindled in his belly. Flora was indeed  _devouring_  this most unusual of her lovers, her cheeks flushed and beads of sweat forming between her breasts. Suddenly impatient, he stepped forward to close the gap between them; ignoring the general's low rumble of warning. Flora caught sight of her commander's tawny shaft as it appeared in the corner of her eye. Since her two lovers were now in such close proximity, she was able to swiftly alternate from one to the other; suckling one man after the other, switching back and forth until she was breathless. Her full and sulky lips fixed themselves around each cock in turn, spending a few moments lavishing the shaft with attention before pulling away.

Duncan, as a man with the more recent experience, was able to keep himself balancing on the knife-edge of pleasure; gripping the base of his shaft tightly to stop his own climax. Loghain, however, had not had such extensive practice. Biting back a muffled curse, his hips jerked forward as he released several thick spurts into the startled Flora; his fingers tangling in her hair.

To her credit she took it well, the muscles in her throat flexing as she swallowed the unexpected gush of seed. Loghain stared down at her, something raw and primal flaring in the depths of his stare. For a moment his grip on her head tightened and he did not seem to want to let her go. Then, half-groaning, he released her; loosing her hair and taking an unsteady step backwards, deflating cock slipping from her lips.

"Don't say anything," the general snarled, presuming that a sly comment was on the tip of Duncan's tongue. "I've not had the time to match the sheer numbers of women you've entertained over the years. And the lass has a natural talent."

The Warden-Commander raised an eyebrow but held back the sarcasm; his response was milder than expected.

"Not to worry, Mac Tir. My mage is also skilled in…. reviving the limp and lifeless."

General shot commander another poisonous look, but was distracted by Flora taking his softened shaft between her lips, small fingers stroking the underside of his sac. Since she had begun bedding Alistair, who had the overexcitement and inexhaustible energy of a puppy, she was more than used to coaxing a sated cock back to life so that intimacy could resume. Loghain exhaled an unsteady breath, planting his feet more firmly on the floorboards and pushing his hips forward to brush against her throat.

While the general's shaft was revived by the magic-augmented attentions of their young lover, Duncan went to fetch his water-pouch from his bag. After a quick swallow – his own mouth was dry with excitement from watching his beautiful  _amira_ pleasuring two men at once – he returned to the pair. In less than a minute, Loghain's cock had returned to its former impressive stance, jutting thick and veined against his stomach.

"Here, Flora."

He offered her the water-pouch; amused at the pinkness of her cheeks and the flush of her breasts. Flora withdrew her mouth from Loghain's cock – to the latter's mild indignation – and sat back on her heels, taking the leather pouch. She took several inelegant gulps, feeling a bead of sweat slide downwards between her breasts. Duncan reached a hand downwards to caress her head, tenderly tracing the shape of her ear with his thumb.

"Are you alright,  _qalbi?"_ he asked, softly. "Enjoying yourself? You're pink in the face."

Flora nodded  _yes_ to all three parts of his statement, pushing her head upwards as he slid an affectionate palm over her rumpled hair. She was enjoying herself – the slickness of her thighs was sound testament to that – but she was too breathless to respond. The Rivaini slid his fingers down the side of Flora's cheek, gripping her gently by the chin and tilting her face upwards. Leaning forwards, he pressed his mouth against her water-dampened lips.

"Lie back,  _qalbi,"_ he murmured as the kiss ended, smiling as she gazed at him with dazed, lust-drowned eyes. "Let us admire your beauty once more."

Flora let herself be guided down onto the mattress, the candlelight shimmering in amber waves through the air above her. She half-closed her eyes, letting her arms settle above her head, fingers curling lazily against her palms. It was warm within the cellar and the candles gave off the smell of fragrant sandalwood. Part of her wondered if this was reality or some peculiar Fade dream; surely she could not  _really_ be in the middle of a Darkspawn-infested forest, safe and warm and pleasured while their enemy skulked above them?

Soon, Flora felt the mattress dip on one side of her body. Before she could roll towards this new indentation, she felt the mattress realign itself with equal pressure on her other side. The general and the commander, despite their vastly different paths in life, had ended up with builds of a similar frame: well-hewn and bulky. Duncan, through the measure of the taint, had kept the muscle of his body better honed; yet Loghain could still equal a man two decades his junior in a duel.

Their hands also felt similar – strong, lean fingers, callused skin from decades spent gripping a sword-hilt – yet their touches began differently. Her commander caressed her as though she were some fine piece of sculpted art, cupping her breasts and teasing her nipples with artisanal skill. His fingers wandered along the side of her ribs, tracing the line of her abdomen as though savouring the ripe firmness of her belly. The general on the other hand, northern bluntness reflected by his bedroom manner, groped Flora with unashamed and fervent desire. Where Duncan stroked, he grabbed; where the commander fondled, he would squeeze and pinch until she whimpered. An impatient hand slid up between her thighs, her clitoris was paddled roughly and two broad fingers slid inside her slickness.

Soon Flora, lost amidst a sea of sensation, grew unable to distinguish one from another. Even Duncan's touch grew more feverish as his lust bridled within him; gentility lost in the face of burning need. She felt hot breath against her neck as lips suckled rough and impatient on her nipple. There were two fingers inside the constricted wetness of her cunt, though she did not know whether they belonged to the man who had his saliva-slick forefinger lodged up to the second knuckle within her ass. There were hands cupping her breasts; stroking the insides of her thighs; lips pressed desirous kisses against her mouth as she turned her head helplessly from side to side. She lost count of the number of times that she climaxed; bucking helplessly on the mattress between her two rival lovers.

At last she heard Duncan's voice breaking through the cloud of her arousal, tender and thick with lust.

"It's time, baby. Onto your hands and knees."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teehehehehee
> 
> This was fun to write :) part two coming soon


	66. Three Together

Flora, still lethargic from the climaxes she had received at the hands of her two lovers, rolled over inelegantly on the mattress. Loose ropes of hair hung alongside her spread fingers as she raised herself up onto hands and knees. An admiring palm – she did not know whose – slid from the nape of her neck, down her spine and over the curve of her buttocks. She heard the two men exchange a few abbreviated words above her head; this would be the first time since the Deep Roads excursions of their youth that they had shared  _anything_ , let alone a woman, and some brief negotiation was necessary.

Flora then heard her name, murmured soft and faintly accented. She turned her head and blinked into the candlelit room, focusing on her commander crouching beside her. Duncan smiled at her, lust and tenderness mingling in the heated depths of his coal-dark irises. He reached out to brush a crimson strand behind her ear, his touch gentle as though she were made of Orlesian glass.

"Mac Tir is about to take your sweet little cunt,  _amira,"_ he murmured affectionately, admiring the sculpted bone of her cheek. "He's a man with scant patience for foreplay."

The delicacy of her commander's touch came in titillating contrast to the crudeness of his words. Flora gazed up at him, slightly mesmerised by the glint of the gold earring in the candlelight. He was still smiling at her; something faint and intangible playing across his expression. One callused thumb came down to press against the fullness of her lower lip, caressing the plump and sulky curve.

"Look at me," he said softly, tilting her chin upwards. "I want to watch your face as he fucks you."

Flora inhaled unsteadily, reflexively turning to see what the general of Ferelden's army was doing behind her. Duncan reclaimed her attention, drawing her gaze back to him.

The Rivaini stared down at his lover's face, the delicately crafted features flooded with colour. As he watched, her eyes widened – he assumed that Mac Tir had just penetrated her – and her lips parted in a helpless whimper. Almost immediately, she began to jolt back and forth; small breasts juddering with the force of his thrusts. Half-bitten gasps escaped her throat; strangled whimpers of pleasure.

"Ah-ah-ah-"

"No finesse, no technique," Duncan observed wryly, still thumbing her cheek with a delicate finger. "He ruts you like a bitch in heat,  _amira_."

Loghain, who was kneeling behind Flora with a firm hand keeping her in place as he thrust, made a rude gesture towards his rival. Yet he was too absorbed in the heat and tightness of the girl around him to make verbal protest; the sensation so intense that he felt his mouth water. Although he did not have the breadth of experience that Duncan could claim, the general had had his fair share of casual encounters over the decades. Not since the heady days of youth could he claim such a ravenous craving for a woman.

Flora curled her fingers into the mattress in an attempt to gain some traction, her body lurching forward with each inelegant thrust. Her hair hung in loose ropes beside her arms, long enough to pool in rich crimson skeins across the linen. A whine escaped from her throat at the sheer sensation of the general's cock planting itself within her again and again with brutal efficiency. It felt as though she was laid bare before him, naked in every sense of the word. The damp slap of colliding flesh echoed around the small basement room; mingled with his grunts and her whimpers.

Duncan saw the urgency and the ecstasy mingled in the faces of both his lover and his rival. Deciding that it was about time to intervene, he shifted himself onto his knees before Flora and leaned back; letting his cock stand proudly upright. He had taught her well: the moment she caught sight of the Rivaini's tawny, powerful shaft, Flora leaned forwards to capture it in her mouth. Her first attempt went awry, her body jolted off-course by a particularly vigorous thrust. Her second attempt was more successful. She managed to fasten her lips around his cockhead, greedily inhaling the broad pillar of muscle.

Flora's movements were driven more by Loghain's thrusts than by any independent bobbing of the head. Her moans were now muffled, panted out against the thick column of warm flesh in her mouth. Duncan reached out to spread a palm that was both affectionate and possessive against the top of her head.

_Being taken by her mouth feels like coming home,_ thought the man who had owned no fixed dwelling since he was a child.  _It's as though my cock was shaped for her._

"Good girl," the Rivaini murmured, watching her make a valiant effort to suckle him while being fucked vigorously from behind. "Keep going."

Duncan's eyes wandered down the gentle curve of her spine, admiring the unbroken creaminess of the flesh. Naturally, his gaze came to linger on the rounded, ripened orbs of her buttocks. He noticed then that the general too was staring fixedly at the girl's pert little ass as it rocked before him. As though their thoughts flowed along the same channel, Mac Tir reached down to grip a firm buttock, teasing it sideways to gaze unimpeded down at the tantalising, and previously forbidden pinprick nestled within.

The Rivaini felt a sudden sting of jealousy. He considered taking back the privilege of Flora's ass – he had no compunction in breaking a promise made to the general – but the prospect of his  _qalbi's_ ensuingdismay dissuaded him.

_She's been desperate for him to part her buttocks and take her there for weeks, and she's been a good girl in resisting temptation. I won't disappoint her._

Duncan eventually managed to catch Loghain's eye – no easy task, when the latter was gazing down so fixedly at the whimpering object of his affections. The Rivaini canted his head, indicating that they should exchange positions. The general appeared reluctant to leave the welcoming heat of Flora's slick little slit, delivering several more vigorous pumps before pulling out. She let out a squeal of rather dazed protest at the sudden emptiness; turning her head from side to side.

To her relief, only moments later she felt herself filled once again; by reassuringly familiar thickness of her first lover's cock. This was the shaft that Flora had been trained to receive; that had taken her virginity and which she had been taught to pleasure. A half-moan of satisfaction escaped her throat as her commander began his slow and deliberate thrusts, savouring each individual penetration. Duncan gripped her with more tenderness than Loghain had done; the deep rock of his hips a deliberate contrast to the general's urgent pace.

"I've never seen a woman like this," Duncan commented, admiring the creamy unbrokenness of Flora's skin. "Have you ever fucked anything so perfect?"

Loghain shook his head: the two men at last able to agree on something. He made no further response, preoccupied with finding an equally welcoming home for his own evicted cock. Fortunately, the girl was already parting her lips; turning an entreating face towards up towards him. He held her chin in calloused fingers, taking his cock in an impatient hand and working it into her throat. The girl received her second lover eagerly with the taste of the first still on her tongue.

" _I've_  never seen anyone so eager to take me before," the northerner observed thickly, bracing his knees further apart on the mattress to hide their shaking. "You suck like an Antivan whore, lassie."

His cock slipped from Flora's lips as she smiled shyly up at him; made pleased by the praise. Loghain gazed down at her, his own mouth suddenly dry. He suddenly realised that he was acutely aware of each thud of his heart against his ribs; the pulse almost painful in its distinctness. Emotion long buried had begun to rise to the surface: sharp, raw edges sticking out from the covering layer of stoicism.

Hastily, the old soldier thrust himself back into Flora's mouth, forceful enough that she let out a muffled squeak. The Warden-Commander, who had a constant ear attuned to the noises of his recruit, immediately let out a warning growl; glowering at Loghain above Flora's naked back.

"Take care with her," he murmured, a thread of menace running through the words.

The general made no reply, but the moment that Duncan resumed his rhythmic drive between Flora's thighs, he dropped a thumb to her cheek, caressing an awkward but heartfelt apology. Flora gazed up at him, her mouth still occupied with his shaft; the corners of her lips turned upwards to show that she hadn't minded. Then she set about the task of suckling him as best she could; her body quivering from the potency of her commander's thrusts.

Both men were now breathing hard, the short, half-groaned exhalations of pleasure accompanying the distinct  _slap_ of colliding flesh. Flora could make little noise, but even she managed to let out muffled whimpers. Yet another climax had left her weak at the knees – Duncan had reached forwards to fondle her clitoris to augment the sensation of his balls-deep thrusting – and her arms now trembled beneath her.

The Rivaini, after watching Loghain mouth silently in ecstasy as his manhood was lapped by a diligent tongue, seriously considered trading positions once more. His  _qalbi's_ lips, full and plush, were kissing the veined length of the general's cock adoringly, lingering over the swollen, shining head.

Yet he could tell that Flora was about to lose her balance, that her hands and knees were about to fail her. Not wanting his lover to fall facedown on the mattress, he withdrew himself from her; leaning forwards to press a kiss to the small of her back. Her skin was flushed and hot to the touch; Duncan could taste the salt of her perspiration on his tongue.

"Baby," he said softly and she turned to him like a flower receiving the sun; Loghain's cock falling from between her lips. "Up we go."

She reached up her arms to twine about his neck; with the strength of a man two decades younger, the Warden-Commander rose easily to his feet. Flora curled her legs around his waist, her ankles crossing at the small of his back. Duncan gripped the underneath of her thighs, fingers cradling the curve of her naked buttocks.

" _Amira_ ," he murmured, nuzzling the soft skin of Flora's throat as she let out a whine of need. "Let us continue."

The Rivaini lifted her up several inches, the head of his shaft slipping between her damp thighs. After a moment, it nestled within the familiar heat of her slick folds; he let out an inadvertent groan of relief as he lowered her back onto his cock. She sighed in similar pleasure, her eyelashes fluttering against her lofty cheekbones as he expanded the tightness within her. Before he resumed movement, Duncan watched the face of his young lover as he rested fully sheathed within her; admiring the flush on her cheeks and the beads of perspiration in the hollow of her throat.

"You are so beautiful," he told her and she opened her clear, saltwater eyes and smiled vaguely at him. "I've seen all the foulest things that Thedas has to offer and seeing your face now,  _qalbi –_ it is like beholding a goddess."

He kissed her then and Flora parted her lips eagerly to receive his adoration; yielding another part of her body for him to claim. It was at this moment that Loghain decided to intervene, his dark eyes focused on his prize. While the old Warden had been murmuring praise, the general had been stripping the rest of his clothing with impatient fervour. Now he stepped up behind Flora, coming close enough that she could feel his breath, hot and urgent, against her shoulder blades. He too began to kiss her, his mouth suckling into her neck, erect shaft nudging against her buttock.

Flora began to turn her head blindly towards this new sensation; before her lips were recaptured by the possessive Rivaini. Denied a kiss, Loghain's callused palms slid around her breasts, cupping them with desirous need. His fingers sought out her nipples and she let out a sob into her commander's mouth, lowering her sweaty forehead to his shoulder.

"I can feel you gripping me," Duncan murmured in her ear, rewarding himself with another slow thrust up into her. "Your cunt is tighter than a Tevinter finger-trap."

He felt her mouth curve into a shy smile against his shoulder. Unable to resist, he pushed himself upwards once again, easing her into a slow bounce on his shaft. Just as they settled into the rhythm of lovemaking, the sharp-eared commander heard the distinct sound of a cork being pulled from a glass vial. Moments later came the sound of an oil-slickened palm gliding along a fleshy length, coating the veined surface from root to head. Flora let out a muffled squeak; Duncan assumed that she had just felt the general's finger slip between her buttocks, applying the same olive-scented lubricant.

Not wanting Mac Tir to rush the preparation, Duncan let Flora rest once more atop his thighs. She clung to him, wide-eyed and pink in the face, sneaking the occasional awed glance over her shoulder. Before long the wrinkled pinprick nested between the ripe cheeks shone with slickness, courtesy of a broad, callused finger.

As the general manoeuvred himself into position behind Flora, Duncan found himself filled with an odd mixture of arousal and anxiety. The girl resting atop his thighs was slight, her fingers small and the bones of her face fragile.

_The last time I shared a woman with another man was back at the port town of Highever, and she was a strapping tavern whore, experienced and broad-waisted. My qalbi is a slender and delicately constructed creature; no matter how sturdy she claims to be._

"Remember, Mac Tir," he said softly over Flora's shoulder, his words low and forceful. "My men are nearby. I'll have you thrown out if you hurt her."

"You'd throw me out?" the general challenged, undaunted even as he nudged the head of his oil-slick cock between Flora's buttocks. "The queen's father?"

"I would throw out the king himself if he caused her pain," retorted Duncan, equally quick. "Take care."

Loghain muttered under his breath, looking down. He was pressing up against the tiny pinprick that had been the subject of his nighttime fantasies for weeks, the shaft of his cock gripped in one impatient fist. Still, even without the Warden's warning, the general had not been planning to shove his way brutally inside. He had no desire to hurt the girl; he was equally cognisant of her inexperience in this area. She had just peeked swiftly at him over her shoulder, anticipation mingled with trepidation writ across her solemn, lovely face.

Aware that Duncan was still sunk balls-deep within Flora – the soft, velvet folds stretched around the root of his tawny cock – Loghain took his time entering her. He listened intently to the noises she made: when she caught her breath or let out a squeak he paused, letting his thumbs rub slow circles into her hips. Then, once the rhythm of her breath had settled once more, he would work himself a further inch inside. Partway through, a fresh sheen of sweat broke through on Loghain's forehead and he muttered something unintelligible under his breath. He repeated it seconds later and it was more decipherable this time:  _so fucking tight._

Meanwhile, Duncan was watching Flora's face like a hawk, gazing deep into her eyes to watch for any discomfort. She had only ever had artificial penetration alongside his own cock; never another man, and – from what he had observed – Mac Tir was girthier than the phallus they had used.

"Good girl," he murmured as Flora exhaled unsteadily, wide-eyed at the sheer intensity of this new sensation. "How does you feel,  _amira?"_

"Like a stuffed cod," she whispered, her fingers clinging to his shoulders as the general eased the fifth inch of himself inside her. "I feel so  _full."_

Duncan pressed his lips to her neck, breathing in the scent of salt, and girl, and the distinct edge of the arcane.

"Just  _relax,"_ he breathed, half-cajoling and half-stern. "You were made to enjoy this kind of pleasure,  _qalbi_."

Flora moaned in assent, letting her forehead drop to his shoulder as she yielded herself wholly to the desires of her two lovers. As she let herself loosen, Loghain eased the last three inches of broad shaft between her buttocks. A strangled and involuntary groan slipped from his throat; his grip on her hips tightened without realisation. The two men were now both rooted in the girl between them, only the full hanging meat of their sacs visible.

"Fuck me," the general managed in constricted tones, gazing down at Flora's parted buttocks. "I've barely room to move. Alright, girl?"

She let out a agreeable whimper, too consumed with sensation to respond coherently. Duncan, in a moment of rare concession, stayed sheathed and still within Flora to allow the general some time to find his stride. Loghain, his fingers curled around her hips, withdrew and then – savouring each inch – pushed himself back in. As he sunk balls-deep once more in her ass, both he and she let out a sound of mingled incoherence. Flora pressed her face into the heated muscle of Duncan's broad chest; the lips pulled back over Loghain's teeth until they were bared. A second later, the general repeated the thrust – more forcefully this time – pressing her into her commander's chest.

"Fuck- " he swore, gritted teeth and beads of sweat sliding down the bulging tendons of his neck – "Fucking you is like glimpsing the throne of the Maker, lass."

Flora made her best attempt at a smile, but she was far too incoherent to produce anything. She clung to Duncan, who gripped her with strong hands atop his hips, and let out a muffled wail. The old northerner thrust himself again within her buttocks, hard enough that his swinging sac made a damp slap against her thighs. This prompted a cry from the girl, who was thrust once again into her commander's chest from the physicality of the illicit mating.

Gradually Loghain settled into a rhythm, his surroundings fading into a blur about him. It no longer mattered that he was sharing Flora with his greatest rival, nor that they were in a damp underground basement in a forest most likely swarming with Darkspawn. Nor did it matter – at this moment – that he could not wholly claim the girl before him, or even take her back to his tent as his mistress. All that mattered was the tight fist of flesh gripping his cock, massaging every inch of it with adoring force as he forced his way inside this most forbidden of places; making it yield to him.

Meanwhile, the Warden-Commander himself had become so absorbed with witnessing his  _qalbi's_ ecstasythat he stayed sheathed motionless within her. He watched Flora as she writhed helpless in the throes of sensation; there was something oddly oddly profane about so sacred a beauty being so violated.

"This is what you've wanted for so long, my love," he murmured, as she by happenstance turned her head against his chest and moaned. "Mac Tir's cock in your pretty little ass. Was it worth the wait,  _amira?"_

She led out a strangled sound that he interpreted as assent, her fingers scrabbling helpless against his shoulder. Suddenly, her body began to convulse without warning; a wail escaping her throat. The Rivaini, intimate with all of her pleasure-noises, realised that she had just climaxed; mere minutes after Mac Tir's vein-lined cock had first sheathed itself. A bite of jealousy nipped him: she had never come so quickly when  _he_ had fucked her youthful pucker.

Duncan decided that it was time for him to regain the upper hand; for his  _qalbi_ to remember who her commander was. He readjusted his grip on her thighs, then lifted her up and away from him before letting her slide back down onto the full length of his cock. As he had intended, the resumed activity from the front awoke Flora from her post-orgasmic reverie. She turned wide and bleary eyes on him, still drowned in the throes of pleasure: a small whimper escaped her throat. The Rivaini met her pale, long-lashed stare with his own unique intensity; focused and unblinking as he directed her into another slow bounce on his cock.

"Your cunt feels even tighter with another man in your ass,  _amira,"_ he murmured, tender as though recanting a line of love poetry. "If I was a younger I'd have spent myself on the first thrust."

Flora mouthed silently at him in awe, then yelped as Loghain resumed his own rhythm from behind. The two men stepped closer to one another, to better control the lurching of the girl now pinned between them. Small breasts juddering with each of their grunted movements, she clung to Duncan's shoulders and whimpered helplessly.

One pale Fereldan cock explored the limits of her tiny pucker, while the olive-hued Rivaini's length lovingly reclaimed the familiar territory of her cunt. At times they thrust into her in unison as though they had planned it; at others they drove into her erratically, having only their single-minded desire for her in common. The noises were akin to anything emerging from the window of an Antivan brothel; slick, and obscene, and oddly beautiful. All three of them were sweating, augmenting the frantic slap of flesh with a damp resonance.

The general was muttering under his breath: fragments of half-gasped profanities that were more suited to a northern commoner than the queen's father. He gripped Flora by the thighs, no longer caring if his fingers tangled with his rivals. Due the frenzied speed of their dual penetration, more than their hands were now in contact: two heavy sacs collided in a wet rhythm as they thrust in close confinement. For his part, the Rivaini was almost silent; the occasional primal grunt slipping from his throat as he focused on sinking himself as deep as he could go within the most exquisite girl he had ever bedded.

Flora twisted her head blindly to one side and her lips were claimed by a covetous, stubble-framed mouth. When she turned back to the front, she was kissed once more by lips that were equally familiar; surrounded by a neatly trimmed beard. The air was stolen from her lungs by her two lovers in turn, the corners of her mouth turned pink from the ferocity of their affection. Her climax took her by surprise; she had been teetering on the edge of it for so long that when she fell, it came almost as a shock. Her body convulsed erratic against two perspiration-laced chests. It was intense enough that her vision dimmed, her hearing grew muffled; all senses muted in contrast to the intensity of her orgasm.

Flora's helpless, trembling wail echoed through the four corners of the small chamber, her head thrown back and her toes curling in ecstasy. The girl's climax seemed to trigger a last burst of energy in both men; they thrust into her with renewed urgency. It was unclear whether the goal was to spend their seed before their rival, or - conversely - to outlast them. Both men were beyond petty rivalry, absorbed by the sensation of the girl clamped tight around their cock.

The general came first, releasing himself between her buttocks with a helpless snarl. Moments later, the commander also spent his seed, having just enough coherence left to sink himself as deep as he could manage. She felt them both inside her, hot and liquid; a little squeak slipped from her throat.

" _Qalbi_ ," escaped in a strangled groan; a sweaty olive forehead came to rest into her neck. Flora reached up trembling fingers to touch the side of her commander's face; feeling Loghain's unsteady exhalation against her shoulder blades.

The room seemed suddenly far quieter now that they were not writhing together. Both men were trying to catch their breath, hoarse and half-panting. All three participants were in a state of shock at how enjoyable the coupling had been. Neither Loghain nor Duncan wanted to be the first to withdraw from the girl pinned limply between them; each wanting to savour the intimate, vice-like grip of her until the last possible moment.

At last the general withdrew with a groan, more due to his deflating cock than any desire to leave the delightful constriction of Flora's buttocks. Flora whimpered as she felt him leave her, turning a dazed, pinkened face towards him. Loghain reached up a clumsy hand to touch her ear; she tilted her head to nestle her cheek into his palm.

Such tenderness did not escape Duncan's attention. The Rivaini stole his  _qalbi's_ attention with a quick suckle of her flushed nipple; she whimpered, turning her head back to him. Duncan briefly considered bouncing her for a little longer on his semi-stiffened cock – the artificial stamina loaned by the taint meant that he could retain hardness for longer – but then decided against it.

_I want to reclaim that sweet little ass of hers. Remind her who owns it._

The Warden-Commander too withdrew from Flora, lifting her reluctantly from his cock. The corners of her mouth turned down: unhappy with such  _emptiness_ after such delicious fullness. He kept her in his arms, pressing his lips to her neck to brush a light kiss over her throat.

" _Amira,"_ he murmured, feeling her small fingers anchor themselves to her shoulders. "My flower. We're going to rinse off this sweat and then make love to you once more."

"Both of you?" she whispered hopefully, seeking to clarify. "At once?"

Duncan raised an eyebrow at Loghain, who had retrieved a hipflask from his belongings and was necking hasty swallows.

"Oh, aye," the general confirmed once he had lowered the flask, ignoring his rival and fixing his dark gaze on Flora. "There's somewhere else I plan to spend my seed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeheheeheheeeeee
> 
> Had to break this chapter up because it was suuuuper long :D


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